The Silver Bird
by The Cheshire Cheese
Summary: Seska's hologram traps the senior staff in a film noir program, cast as mobsters, detectives, and femme fatales, all driven to plot, rob, and shoot one another, to get their hands on the "silver bird." Back in the 24th Century, the Doc works with the lower decks crewman, to stop Seska. (Several pairings, but mainly P/T and C/7.)
1. The Silver Bird

**A/N: My stories have been getting kind of depression/gruesome lately, so here's a more light-hearted one. There will still be some serious moments. But language and sexual content will be far tamer—actually, it'll be a lot like an old movie! ;) **

**Warning: *Some* swearing (but not excessive); some racial slurs (because it's the '40s); and references to '40s pop culture that no normal person would recognize. **

**Enjoy. **

**Oh, and I don't own "Star Trek: Voyager."**

* * *

Parts of San Francisco were almost as busy at night as it they were in daylight. Even at one-thirty in the morning, Harry had to weave through a maze of old brick buildings until he was in a disturbingly silent alley, to meet his contacts. He was the first one there. Harry wasn't a guppy (whatever his associates said) but this was the first time he'd arrived in a situation like this alone. If he'd been a smoker he would have lit up a joint to calm himself, but he wasn't. Harry liked to take care of his body. So he merely leaned against the wet brick wall, and dropped his hands into the large pockets of his trench coat, feeling the pistol he'd brought. His fedora did little to protect his face from the misty drizzle that sprinkled San Francisco tonight, but Harry didn't mind. It was kind of relaxing.

A car screeched to a halt in front of the alley, far too loudly. It was a hideous old thing, a black, blockish car from the '30s in dire need of a paint job. When the door flung opened, Harry feared it would break right off. Out of the car hoped a lanky white guy about his own age, with light-colored hair (exactly what color, it was hard to tell in the dim street lights, but Harry guessed brown). The driver was dressed much like Harry, but his coat was a lot rattier, and opened. Underneath, his suspenders were visible over his white shirt—not vest or suit top. He didn't even have a tie. As the guy swaggered up, Harry saw him drop a little bottle into one large coat pocket.

The guy dipped his hat. "Evening, partner."

"'Partner?'" Harry said, keeping his hands in his pockets.

"Just got back from seeing a Western picture, with a breathtaking blonde," the guy bragged.

"Ah."

The other guy looked around the alley. "Are you the man with the bird?"

"No." Harry said. "I work for Indiana. I assume you're the driver of the getaway car?"

"The one and only." The driver dipped his hat again.

Harry noticed a few funny trinkets stuck in the brim of the guy's hat: a Joker card, a little winged U.S. Air Force pin, and a small bird's feather. Harry found himself wishing he'd thought to do something like that with his own hat.

A sound made both men turn towards the opposite end of the alley. The streetlamp was casting the long shadow of a man in a trench coat onto the damn stone street.

The driver called out, "Hey, Claude Rains! If you're the man with the bird, you can get over here and give it over."

The man who stepped around the corner redefined "ugly." His face was so scared that it almost looked like little more than a bumpy mess. Underneath his bowler hat, clumps of untamed gray hair stuck out. The man's mouth was stretched into something almost resembling a smile, but not the welcoming kind. More of the "I'm about to cut you" kind.

"You're the men Indiana sent?" the gangster asked, in a sneering voice.

"That's right," the driver said. "Kitty Indiana paid me to pick up the bird tonight. I assume Shortie here's got your dough." He thumbed over to Harry, who threw him a look.

"Yeah," Harry rummaged through his pocket and produced a wad of bills. "Here's the cash, from Miss Kitty Indiana herself." He approached the gangster with the money. "Miss Indiana extends her highest thanks to your boss Mickey Kazon for your time, and cooperation."

The gangster reached for the cash, but Harry pulled his hand back.

"Ah-ah-aaah," he extended his free hand. "First, we make sure the bird's genuine."

The gangster reluctantly opened his trench coat, and pulled out a bundle about the size of a football, wrapped in newspapers and string. Harry took the package, and carefully undid the wrapping. The driver leaned over to get a look. Harry had seen photographs of the statue, but seeing it in person was something else. It was a very abstract representation of a falcon in flight. At first glance, one might mistake it for some kind of space ship from a science fiction picture, like "Flash Gordon." It was slick and smooth, crafted from silver. The spread wings and tail feathers ended in sharp points, as did the beak. The bird lacked feet, its underbelly flat for sitting on a table or pedestal. The silver bird was covered with tiny colorful stones—red, turquoise, indigo, green—forming geometric patterns. Looked like something from Mexico.

The driver whistled. "Looks real to me!"

Harry momentarily pocketed the cash for the gangster, and fished out a quarter, which he tapped gently against the bird. A distinctive ring echoed through the alley.

"That's silver!" the driver confirmed.

"If you please." The gangster held out his hand.

Harry put away the coin, and handed the guy his money. The gangster stuck the money inside his coat, fumbling around for a few seconds, as if he was having trouble fitting it into his inner pocket. Then, suddenly, his hand came back out, with a pistol.

"And now, I'll be taking _back_ that bird."

Harry's driver offered a short laugh, sticking his hands on his hips, inside his coat. "Am I going deaf,"…and then he whipped out his own gun. "…or are you actually trying to double-cross Kitty Indiana?"

In the time the driver had distracted the gangster, Harry had drawn his own pistol. "Two against one," Harry warned, "I think you'd better just be grateful for what you were paid, and get lost."

"One against two?" the gangster scoffed. "No, Chinaman. I think it's more like…two against _six_."

And as he was speaking, five more men stepped into the alley, weapons drawn. Two had Tommy guns.

"Well," Harry's driver laughed. "If you put it like _that_…"

He suddenly swiped the bird from Harry, and swaggered over to the gangster, who proudly held out his free hand again. But instead of giving the bird over, he used it to smack the gangster's gun out of his hand. Harry winced as the driver let the statue clatter to the stone street, so he could use both hands to pull the gangster into a hostage position, his gun trained on his head.

"Now beat it, all of you, or he dies." The driver warned. "_Ah_—!" he cocked his gun, stopping the other gangsters from going for the bird on the ground.

Harry quickly scooped up the bird with one hand. "What's more important," he looked each gangster in the eye. "Your friend…or this lump of tin?"

Everyone was silenced, for just a few seconds.

The gangsters exchanged very subtle, but noticeable, glances. The one being held by the driver suddenly widened his eyes in terror. Harry saw the driver squint his eyes shut, and swear silently.

The driver hurled his hostage into the gangsters, grabbed Harry's sleeve, and yanked him down the alley and back to the car, while the shooting broke out. Harry managed to pull the car door shut before any bullets got in, but both men had to press themselves flat down against the seat almost immediately, as bullets began passing through the glass windows. The driver stepped on the gas, and they took off with another deafening screech.

"Take my gun!" the driver yelled, as they tore down the road.

"_What_?" Harry was holding his own pistol in both hands, the bird trapped between his knees on the seat. "I've _got_—"

"Use both!" the driver shouted, his eyes stuck fiercely to the road. "I'm driving!"

Harry was about to ask how five men on foot would catch up to a car anyhow, but was cut off by the sound of more shattering glass. Their enemies were behind them now, in Volkswagen Beetle. And two of them still had Tommys. _Shit_. Harry didn't even bother rolling any windows down. He just spun in his seat and began shooting through the back windshield, with a gun in each hand, until it shattered away completely. He was doing most of his aiming with his right hand, the gun in his left just shooting randomly in their general direction. The entire time, his driver was taking the car all around the road, swerving in and out sharply, as if he was _trying_ to drive chaotically. It made Harry dizzy, and his stomach was getting upset. He blinked, trying to focus. Harry managed to get one guy in the head, letting his machine-gun clattering onto the road. But that was it.

"Don't aim for the drivers," his new friend yelled. "Aim for the tires!"

Harry opened his mouth to ask the guy to repeat himself, but had to duck to avoid another round of bullets from the remaining Tommy gun. After returning a few shots, Harry yelled, "Aim for the 'highers'?"

"TIRES!" the driver hollered. "SHOOT THEIR TIRES! ON THEIR CAR!"

Harry understood, tried to take aim, and found he couldn't, from this position. He frantically rolled down the window, and stuck his head and hand out, aiming at the wheels of the other car. Before he even got a shot, they swerved out of the way. And suddenly, Harry understood why his friend was driving the way he was. He _had_ to make their tires' movements impossible to predict for their attackers, in order to keep the car _moving_. The remaining guy with a Tommy gun was now showering the street behind them, trying to take out their back wheels. His friend was managing to keep their car just ahead of the bullets.

They turned onto a main road, causing pedestrians to step back off the street, gasping or screaming. After few more sharp corners, Harry finally thought he had a shot at one of the enemies' tires…and neither of his guns would shoot.

"I'm out of bullets!" Harry screamed.

"Good timing," the driver said, taking them towards a dark tunnel. "Listen, when I say three, we both roll out! Don't forget the bird!"

"What?"

"Trust me! When I say—Get your bird!"

Harry looked at his useless guns, and quickly dropped them, scooping up the bird.

"What I say…"

They shot into the tunnel, which was pitch-black—no lights. Harry couldn't see his hands gripping the silver statue in front of him.

"THREE!"

Harry suddenly felt a kick in his side, and he smacked into his door. He fumbled with the knob, and tumbled out onto the rock-hard street. He heard the car roar down the tunnel without them. Seconds later, he heard another engine roar past. Harry was in too much pain to stand. The arm he'd landed on was in agony, and the statue had stabbed him in the chest. Well, maybe "stabbed" was an exaggeration. But it had definitely pierced skin, and torn his shirt.

He felt hands on him, pulling him to his feet.

"You okay?"

Harry groaned. "Well I ain't dead."

"Which is probably more than can be said for our pals over there."

Harry nervously followed the driver down the dark tunnel. After who knew how long, they finally saw the stars again. Harry almost waltzed right out of the tunnel, but his friend blocked him with his arm.

"Wait." The guy carefully led Harry against the wall, and they crawled to the edge of the tunnel. "Look."

Harry looked…down. The tunnel was a bridge, and the bridge was incomplete. In the middle of construction. In the water below, both cars were sinking, and a few of the gangsters were floundering in the water. A few.

"I think we should go back the way we came." The driver advised.

Harry moved his head to nod in agreement. But as he dipped his head back down, his supper, too, decided to leave the way it had come. Harry barfed for what seemed like a good half a minute, finally finishing with his new friend patting him on the back.

"Come on."

Harry let the guy lead him blindly back through the tunnel. Before they exited back into the city, Harry tucked the statue under his trench coat, and tied it shut. The trek back through the city was almost as terrifying as the car chase, with all the people at pay phones, and police cars already arriving at the scene.

The driver took Harry home to his tiny old apartment. After locking and bolting the door, he pulled his bottle of whiskey out of his coat, and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard.

"No offense, but you seem new to this business," the guy said, pouring Harry his drink.

"I have been a little sheltered, I guess." Harry admitted. "Spending half your teenage-hood in an internment camp will do that to you."

"You're Japanese?" the guy joined him at the table, and began pouring his own drink. "I was gonna guess Korean, or maybe _Chi_nese."

"That too." Harry said. "My family's a little complicated." The whiskey didn't taste great, but Harry forced himself to take another gulp. "God, I hope my parents never find out about this. Especially my mother. It would kill her." He stared out the widow, at the starry sky and the city lights. "She wanted me to play the clarinet. _I_ wanted me to play the clarinet! Or at least work in a garage or something. But who's gonna hire a Jap and with no experience."

"Kitty Indiana?" the guy suggested.

Harry nodded. "_Kitty Indiana_. She hired me the day she met me at her club, as a repairman and gunner. My qualifications being—and I quote—'Why not.'"

The guy slammed his empty glass onto the table, and followed it with a short belch. "Beautiful story."

Harry stared, unimpressed with the reception his story had gotten.

The driver suddenly leaned forward, extending his hand to Harry. "Tommy Chicago."

Harry had to crack a grin, because he used the same corny kind of alias. "Harry Kimitsu."

* * *

"That was _awesome_!" Naomi Wildman exclaimed, staring bug-eyed at the little screen.

Naomi was in Engineering, watching the events of Holodeck 1 play out on wall panel. She was one of a small crowd around the little screen, which included her mother, the Doctor, Icheb, and Ensign Vorik. Behind them, crewmen worked to repair the warp core, which had gone dead, leaving the entire Engineering room unusually dark. But to Naomi, that just made the showing all the better.

"It is _not_ awesome." Samantha Wildman shot her daughter a look. "The safety protocols are off! They could've been killed!"

"They may still be killed," Vorik warned. "If we don't find a way to free them from this program."

"Or at least restore their memories." Icheb added.

"Is this like that time we were all trapped in World War II France?" Naomi asked, looking up at her mother.

Naomi didn't really know what was going on.

A week ago, Tom Paris had announced that he'd been working on a new holonovel, one based on the 1940s. It wasn't a War program, though. It was set shortly after the War, focusing on private-eye detectives, social issues, pop culture, the repercussions of WWII, and especially the Mafia. Tom had declared the program finished just tonight, and invited the senior staff (his closets clique of friends) to try the program out right after dinner. It was not unusual for the entire senior staff to have get-togethers, for birthday parties or promotions or other celebrations, and Voyager hadn't been in any serious trouble for almost a month now (a record, perhaps). So Janeway let Tom talk all nine of them into giving it a shot.

Naomi had been in her quarters, working on a painting for Ensign Jenkins' art class. Inspired by Paris's current film-noir craze, Naomi had been working on a picture of a 1920s flapper girl, eagerly daydreaming about when it would be her turn to get into that new program. Without a doubt, she'd be dragging Icheb along. What she wouldn't give to have Mezoti and the twins back on board, so they could come too…

And then, suddenly, her mother—who'd been on the couch reading some Ktarian fantasy classic—was called to the bridge, for an emergency. Naomi had waited patiently in her quarters, trying to focus on her picture, but ultimately had to give up. She'd had the computer locate her mother, and met everyone up in Engineering, coming in just when "Tommy Chicago" and "Harry Kimitsu" were meeting in that alley. At first, Naomi had thought that this was all part of Tom's program, and that the rest of the ship was being invited to watch the Senior Staff play it out, like a performance. But the concerned voices of her mother, Icheb, and the other officers had begun to hint otherwise.

"Are they stuck in a killer holodeck program _again_?" Naomi asked her mother.

Sam looked at Naomi, almost shamefully. "Naomi, I keep forgetting that you're half Ktarian. You're not gonna be a little girl much longer, are you." Sam looked over at the Doctor. "Well you were there, Doc. You can probably explain it better than I can."

The Doctor's eyebrows bobbed, as he considered how to sum it up. "The senior staff entered the holodeck, where Mr. Paris decided to show off his knowledge of the Twentieth Century again, rather than just letting us just find out for ourselves by playing the program. Everyone probably would have fallen asleep, if they hadn't been rendered unconscious by the chandelier first."

"Chandelier?" Naomi repeated.

"We were standing in the lobby of a theater of some sort. Mr. Kim noticed it first. Mr. Paris said that he thought the program must be malfunctioning. I saw plasma bursts emit from the chandelier and strike each member of the senior staff except myself. I tried to get to the captain, but I was transferred out back to sickbay before I could. Apparently whoever planned this didn't want me involved."

"Nor the safety protocols." Vorik reminded everyone.

"We can't get _in_," Samantha's eyes were fixed on the screen, where Tom and Harry were now laughing over their drinks. "_They_ can't get out, we can't _communicate_ with them, and from the looks of it, none of them have any memory of who they really are."

"It _is_ like France, then." Naomi said.

"France?" Icheb gave her an inquiring look.

"France." Naomi said. "You've read the database Icheb, you know about the time the Hirogen took over the ship, and trapped a bunch of us on the holodeck. Mom and I thought we were Jews, and we were hiding in Neelix's attic. I was too young to really understand the politics of it. I just remember being so scared, because my friend got sent to a camp—not a real friend, but you know—and then, suddenly, we hear this weird language out the window, and I thought it sounded like Scandinavian or something—but instead there's a bunch of Klingons in the street, chopping up Nazi! I didn't remember what a Klingon was at the time, but it was still really cool. The whole thing just feels like a big weird dream now,"

"A _bad_ dream." Sam said, cutting her off. "Let's figure out how to get our senior officers out of _this_ one."

The Doctor popped one eyebrow. "Back to work, then, I suppose…"

* * *

**A/N: The name "Kitty Indiana" is inspired by Texas Guinan (a female club owner arrested several times during the 1920s for serving booze), and Panama Smith (a fictional character **_**based**_** off Guinan, played by Gladys Geroge, featured in the 1939 movie "The Roaring Twenties"). Incidentally, it seems that "Next Generation's" saloon keeper Guinan must be named after Texas Guinan! **

**Kimitsu is a city in Japan. In this holoprogram, players will have their places of origin altered slightly, to better fit with the social issues of the 1940s. ;) **


	2. The 47s

**A/N: Warning: If you don't like when authors describe people's fashion/make-up…too bad. (Boss fashion and hair is as central to film noir as the cigarettes, gunplay, and cheesy slang.) **

**I also apologize to anyone who is British or Dutch. I hope you have a sense of humor.**

* * *

Billie Torres slammed the alarm clock harder than she meant too. She sighed, pulling her hand away, examining the damage on the already bent clock. This time, she'd left a small crack in the glass. Billie collapsed back into bed, and spent several moments staring at the ceiling. She'd been having a good dream. Tommy had returned to her. He'd apologized for everything, and then she told him the news, and he was delighted. That damned alarm clock had forced her back into this reality, where she lay in bed alone, in a rundown apartment in Chicago, her rounding belly now beginning to reveal her illegitimate pregnancy.

She didn't want to get out of bed, but her child wanted breakfast—and presumably a roof over his or her head too. So she forced herself up, and into her morning routine. She ate her banana pancakes and coffee while reading the paper. (Updates on Pakistan, a new Humphrey Bogart movie, and the Brooklyn Dodgers taking a Colored man named Jackie Robinson onto their team.)

She dressed herself in a modest dark-blue suit dress with thick white trim. Her hair was always tricky, because it had to somehow compliment the unusual forehead she'd inherited from her mother. People always noticed the odd ridges than rippled down her forehead, but most were far too polite to say anything. A few friends had recommended cosmetic surgeons, but Billie distained snooty aristocrats who got surgeries just to look "beautiful." ("I'm a secretary, not a movie star," she'd tell those friends.) She tossed on the final touches: pearl earrings she'd managed not to sell yet; a little (fake) white flower pinned to her collar; and a plain, cheap ring she'd gotten at a pawn shop, a false wedding band she'd begun to wear, once her pregnancy started to show. After that, on with the trench coat, out into the cool November air, and on to the subway station.

Once on the train, Billie tried to entertain herself with the view out the window, but couldn't, not today. Against her better judgment, Billie unfolded out the letter she always kept in her coat pocket.

_11 March, 1946_

_Hey there Billie. Not much time to write. Will make this quick. Love you. I love you too much to stay. I did something during the War, something bad. It wasn't killing enemy soldiers I was feeling guilty about all that time. It was killing my own. And lying about it. Long story, but to make short, I took wrong turn, drove us into a Nazi ambush. Got all three of the other guys killed. Got back and lied, said Johnson gave me wrong directions. Thought they wouldn't find out. But now Im getting questions from my old commanders, other soldiers pointing fingers at me. I wasn't a good soldier Billie. I wasn't brave. I was a coward. None of the men could ever count on me and neither can you. I'm getting out of here, to save you and me both. Im a coward and I don't want to go to jail. Don't want you to be involved. Don't try to contact me. Find someone else. Someone decent, who will take care of you and your children. And know that no matter what happens—_

Billie stopped herself from finishing.

She folded the letter back up, before the tears came.

She didn't dare allow herself to wonder what Tommy might have done, had he known that she was expecting. Because in the back of her mind, she suspected—from the way he worded the letter—that Tommy _did_ know, if only in the back of _his_ mind. It might even have been the thing that triggered him to leave.

As Billie replaced the letter in her pocket, her fingers brushed against a few _other_ folded bits of paper. Nuts, she'd almost forgotten about her… little "backup plan."_ Oooh, Tommy, don't worry about me, I've found a man who'll take care of me…financially anyway. _Billie hoped things wouldn't come to blackmail. Charles was her friend. Maybe one of her dearest friends. But if that was what it took to keep her job, and keep food on her and her child's table, well…

* * *

Billie was a secretary to an archeologist named Charles Liberty. Self-employed and not particularly successful, Chuck made most of his living teaching at a small university, and bringing in extra dough fighting. Exactly how an American Indian who made no effort to hide his heritage—flaunted it, in fact, with that goofy tattoo over his eye—had landed such a respectable job in the "white" world, Billie didn't quite understand. But she was certain that his purple heart from the War had helped. And being up here in Illinois, rather than, say, Alabama, was also probably in Chuck's favor.

His good fortune had certainly helped _her_. When the Indian professional had happened upon the pregnant, half-Mexican, unmarried woman with abnormal facial features, his response had been pity, rather than distain. Then he'd asked if she'd come for an interview, and Billie had immediately said yes, uncertain what she was about to interview for. She'd improvised well though, and landed a job as Charles' secretary. For a brief time, Billie had fantasized about marrying him, to give her child a father. But Charles had subtlety made it clear to her that he wasn't going to cross _that_ line. He wound up becoming something of a brother to her.

Charles was at his desk when Billie arrived, pouring over some newspaper clippings. His black hair was parted at the side, with some streaks of silver cutting through the sides behind his ears. He looked good in that white shirt and suspenders, with the sleeves rolled up…but not half as good as her Tommy had. Billie shoved the thought away, and greeted her employer.

"G'morning Chuck."

"Morning Billie." Charles smiled, before returning to his work.

The morning _was_ good. But come lunchtime, things got…interesting.

Just as Billie was getting up to leave the office and go out for her lunch break, Charles said, "One moment Billie. You _have_ a moment?"

"Sure." She smoothed her suit dress. "What is it?"

Charles looked at her, fiddling with his pencil. "You were excited to get this job. You stopped by for an interview just a few days after I put my ad in the mail box."

Billie nodded. "That's right."

Charles continued to stare at her. Then he opened his drawer, and pulled out two opened envelopes.

"This showed up in my mailbox this morning." He removed the contents of both envelopes, and tossed them onto the desk. One was a letter, in his handwriting. The other had been written on a typewriter. Charles pinched up the typed letter and read aloud: "We apologize; the address you've sent your letter to is no longer in service. Your money will be returned…" Charles dropped the paper on the desk. "Since my ad never wound up in the paper, I'd love to know how you found out I was looking to hire someone on. And why you lied about it in the interview."

Billie folded her arms over her pregnant stomach. "Well, since there's no more hiding it…I…just needed work." She shrugged. "You felt sorry for me, and then suddenly you were asking if I wanted an interview, and I figured, why not."

"You needed work." Charles gave a tiny nod. "Yet instead of being downtown job hunting, you were out here on campus, snooping around my office."

"_Snooping_? Charles I was going for a _walk_! I already told you,"

"Yes. You were looking in the windows because you'd always dreamed of going to college yourself and never had the chance. Believable enough at the time. But since I now know you've lied to me once already, I'm inclined to do another background check."

"Charles, please," Billie dropped into her winded, pleading voice. "I need this job."

"For?"

She looked down, realizing she wasn't going to fool him a second time.

Time for Plan B.

"All right." She met his eyes again, and spoke clearly and bluntly. "I'm looking for something that I think belongs to me. I tracked it to you, and decided to try my hand at the damsel-in-distress motif. When you mentioned the ad in the paper, I just smiled and went with it."

"What is it you're looking for?" he eyed her suspiciously, almost nervously.

"A silver statue of a bird." She held out her hands. "About so-long, and this wide. Covered in stones. See my grandfather, on my father's side…he wasn't exactly a law abiding citizen. He and some fellow desperados wrangled up a lot of treasures in the desert, and this was the most valuable. _My_ father inherited it, but he was forced to pawn it when the stock market crashed."

Charles face became sympathetic. "To feed the family?"

She scoffed. "No. To fund his _own_ relocation to greener pastures. He abandoned my mother and me during the Depression. Left us flat in the middle of the Dust Bowel, with no one to support us. The bastard took _all_ the valuables with him. I want that bird as a sort of pension, for my mother. And yes, a bit of extra cash for myself and my baby would certainly make my life easier."

Charles gave Billie that look he used which often took the place of a sigh. He silently lit himself a cigarette, looking like he was pondering how to respond to her story.

"Sounds like a reasonable claim on the bird." He finally said. "In any case, you have a bigger right to it than those fat cats who just want it for the fame and fortune." He took a drag of his joint. "I've been tracking the bird for the same reason you have Billie. I think I have a claim to it. You know I'm not from Illinois, Billie, I'm from Arizona. That silver bird was crafted by my tribe. It got confiscated during some conflict with the American government." He smiled. "But it sounds like what goes around comes around, hmm?"

Billie grinned. "They robbed your great-grandfather, and then my gramps robbed them."

There was a silence, as Charles took another drag from his cigarette.

"So," Billie looked around awkwardly, dropping her hands to her sides. "Are we going to look for the bird together then?"

Charles exhaled. "No. You're fired."

Billie didn't react—partially because she couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"I mean it. I like you Billie; I've never had a finer assistant. But I can't afford to have people I don't trust in here, and I can't afford to split the cost of that bird. I've got costs to pay off too. Big ones." He leaned back, shuffling some papers. "Go dig up one of your grandpa's _other_ pirate treasures."

"I don't think I'm going anywhere."

Charles looked back up and her, almost amused. "You're in no position to argue."

Billie pulled a sheet of scrap paper from her shirt pocket, and read: "June 5, 1947: Round three, your ass goes down. The bread will be under your door."

Charles slowly removed his cigarette, and put it out.

Billie pulled out another slip. "May 3: Round seven, you go down…"

"Where did you get that." Charles voice and face were expressionless, as they usually were when he was under pressure.

"Your trash." She pulled out an entire handful of little slips. "August—I can't read that number—you win, but only after the ninth—" by now Charles had risen from the desk, and was approaching her, while she backed away from him, joyfully reading each slip. She let him snatch a few of them from her, and simply pulled more from her pockets. "January, '46: Round fiftee—you _went fifteen _rounds? My _god_ your head must've hurt! Here, have them." She tossed the slips at Charles like confetti. "I have so many more at home—and you'll _never_ find them."

Charles clenched the papers in his fist, and finally let them drop to the floor. He stared down at her sullenly.

Billie was giggling like a schoolgirl, not so much out of malice as humor. Professor Charles Liberty, by night known as the Tattooed Terror, looking like a pouty child caught with his hands in a cookie jar, was too adorable for words. Billie would remember that sight for a long time.

"Accepting bribes from gangsters, to lose at your boxing matches?" She shook her head. "Despicable. And then leaving the evidence in waste baskets, that get picked up by your secretary—who's a poor single mother who needs money bad? That's just _embarrassing_." She gestured to Charles. "You smoke, Chuck. You've got access to fire. Why didn't you just burn them?"

"That'd be more conspicuous, leaving a burning smell behind in my office. Anyone passing the window seeing me light up a sheet of paper, rather than throwing one out…"

"I guess it was too much work to just take them home and burn them there?"

Charles looked away, staring at the evidence that littered his floor with his hand on his hip. Billie swung her arms playfully.

"So…what kind of a raise am I looking at here?"

Charles gave her a look under his eyebrows, and moved back behind his desk. "Fine. We'll work something out. Find the bird together. But from now on, we're honest with each other."

* * *

Tommy and Harry stepped off the train and sauntered through the subway station, doing all they could to look like two buddies just heading off to work for the day. But the noticeable difference in dress between them made the charade hard to pull off. Neither had changed his clothes since the night before, but at least Harry had made sure to neatly fold everything up before crashing on Tom's couch in his underwear. Tommy's clothes were even more wrinkled than when they'd met. It had taken Harry almost five minutes just to talk Tommy into wearing a tie for Miss Indiana; when Tom had finally tossed on a red necktie with Mickey Mouse—or Steamboat Willie, or whoever that mouse at the boat helm was called—Harry hadn't argued. He hoped his own formal plaid bowtie would compensate for Tommy's bad taste.

As they came up the subway's steps and onto the street, Harry was reexamining their map. "Was this really the closest stop we could get to Indiana's place?"

"Los Angeles," Tommy Chicago laughed. "The best public transportation system in the world! If you think getting around _here_ is hard, try Wisconsin. Those rubes don't even _have_ a subway system."

"I've been to Indiana's club a few times," Harry said. "But I guess I always wound up taking a cab or getting a ride."

Kitty Indiana's café was just one of many joints in a string of buildings on the road. The vertical sign spelled the club's name, The Queen's Cabin, in a font based on Old English writing. When they were finally facing the club head-on, they could see the mascot standing above the horizontal sign over the doorway: a female pirate, black hair billowing in the wind, with one hand on her hip, and the other on a sword on her belt. Tommy eyed the logo curiously, as they crossed underneath and entered the club.

"Is that Anne Bonnie on the sign out there?" Tommy asked, stepping into the café.

"Grace O'Malley." The husky female voice made Tommy's head turn.

Harry's boss stood before them, with one hand on her hip. "Or _Grania_, if you prefer the original Gaelic."

"Tommy Chicago," Harry said, "Meet Miss Kitty Indiana."

Tommy began to dip his hat, and suddenly remembered to take it off indoors. Holding his hat to his chest, Tom said, "Miss Indiana, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person."

When Kitty had hired Tommy to pick up Harry and the bird, she'd done it over the phone.

"Likewise." Kitty nodded, and gestured theatrically. "Welcome to my café Mr. Chicago."

Despite not being a young woman, Kitty Indiana carried herself regally, and was dressed in the height of fashion. She wore a long maroon dress that was modest, but flattered her figure, with blouse-like sleeves, a row of gold buttons, and a matching belt. Translucent white ruffles from an undershirt poked from the dress's neckline, dangling over her chest. A large white rose was stuck through the fabric over one breast. Her brown hair was yanked tightly up, cumulating in a bundle of curls that tickled one side of her forehead. Her make-up was smoky and dark, working _with_ her age rather than trying to hide it. Most interesting, though, was a maroon eye-patch that covered her right eye, trimmed with tiny white lace, matching her outfit. One absolutely got the impression of a pirate queen.

"Grace O'Malley," Tommy repeated. "Was she real, or someone fictional like Long John Silver?"

"Oh, she was real." Kitty replied. "The Irish called her the Pirate Queen My father claimed a relation. I'm not sure if I believe him or not, but it's fun to pretend." She winked. "If you'll follow me gentleman, I'd like to offer you both a drink."

She turned, and they followed her across the café.

Miss Indiana ran a classy place, something resembling a gin-joint, cabaret, and restaurant all rolled into one. Directly ahead of them was a short stage, currently out of use, with red curtains shut behind it. Next to it, a beautiful blonde woman was playing a soft tune at a piano, while the sparse amount of morning guests ate their breakfast and coffee at round white-clothed tables. A bar lay against one wall. The tables were arranged around a large dance floor, where a silver mirror ball dangled overhead. The restaurant was divided by wide arches and smooth black pillars, decorated with gold geometric designs that shouted back to the Roaring Twenties. Potted palm trees, and other tropical California plants, stood around the corners and doorways, reminding Tom of Rick's Cafe from "Casablanca."

"Was this place a speakeasy?" Tommy asked, admiring the diamond chandeliers.

"One of the most popular in Los Angeles!" Kitty said proudly. "My mother ran the joint, while my father got the booze. Daddy worked Capone, Lansky, Siegel, and Luciano before any of them were famous."

"He went all the way to Chicago and the East Coast to get his booze?" Tommy asked, walking through the café with his hands in his pockets.

"On occasion."

As they approached the woman at the piano, Harry grinned and gestured to her with his hat. "Hi there, Annie."

The woman didn't stop her work at the piano, but gave Harry a short smile in return. She looked like a movie star, with her glamorous makeup and gold hair swept over one shoulder. She wore a long dress of deep blue, straight sleeves and with fashionably padded shoulders, and a plunging V-neck. While Indiana's makeup was misty and subtle, Annie's was sharp and bright. After her beauty, the most noticeable feature was a set of unusual metallic shapes, one curving around her eye, the other spread under her ear like a star. One of her hands was covered in a web of metal. Tommy tried not to be caught staring.

Kitty had led them up a narrow staircase and into the little sitting room. Only after she'd shut the door did Tommy dare to ask her about her piano player's appearance.

"What were those silver blotches all over her face?"

"Tom!" Harry hissed, his eyes bulging.

"What?" Tommy shrugged. "She looks like she walked off the set of 'Metropolis.'"

"It's a common enough birth defect, Mr. Chicago." Kitty yanked the chain of a ceiling lamp, giving them more light. "It's not contagious, and it isn't life-threatening, and I'd just as soon you didn't mention it to Annie's face; she's sensitive about her condition."

"'Course," Tommy lifted a hand diplomatically.

Harry said politely, "I think it makes her look…interesting."

Kitty Indiana gestured for the two men to sit on an elegant couch, and poured everyone a cup of coffee. She then had a seat across from them in a little armchair. Between them stood a little coffee table.

"All right," Indiana said, after taking an indulging sip of her coffee. "Let's see the bird!"

Harry opened his coat, and placed the package on the table. With an approving look from his boss, Harry un-wrapped it. The gem-encrusted bird was even more impressive sitting on the reflective coffee table. Indiana gently took the bird by its wings, slowly turning it around on the table to examine it from every angle.

"Gentleman," she said in a low voice, "We have all become rich."

"Who's 'we'?" Tommy blinked half-humorously. "Is your piano girl Annie in on this?"

Indiana looked up at Tommy. "Annie's not—is that 'Steamboat Willie?'"

Tommy glanced down at his tie. "Oh! Yeah." He shrugged. "Love cartoons. Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Betty Boop..."

Indiana smiled. "I remember when 'Steamboat Willie' was new in theaters. One of the first sound pictures I ever saw." She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. Annie Hanson, my piano player. Yes, she helped me track down the bird. Don't be fooled by her blonde hair and innocent smile; Annie's one of the most conniving minds I've ever known. All she needed was someone to point her in the right direction."

"Sounds like you two are close." Tommy observed.

"Annie's something of a surrogate daughter to me. She's an orphan. I ran into her, and helped her find her way."

Tommy sat there with his arms folded, waiting for Indiana to elaborate. When she didn't he said, "I guess you and her probably have a few interesting stories to tell."

"Not really." Kitty raised her mug. "Just the same doom-and-gloom song and dance you'll hear from everyone who tried to find work during the Depression. _Now_, let's discuss what exactly we're going to do with this bird."

Tommy looked at Harry, to see if _he_ thought Kitty was leaving anything out. Harry was watching the bird eagerly, as if waiting for it to lay a golden egg. Tommy finally shrugged, and decided to let it drop…for now.

* * *

Detective Timothy Excelsior liked to work alone.

Tim had quite enjoyed the tranquility of the little Georgia farm he'd grown up on. But it wasn't very interesting, and lacked challenging puzzles to be solved. Rather than take over his pop's farm, Timothy had gone to college (a Colored university, of course), and eventually earned his P.I. license…just in time for Black Tuesday. With the stock market in shambles, the South was the last place for a Colored man to try looking for someone to hire him. So Tim did what a lot of Negros had been doing since the '20s; relocated to New York City, and taken residence in the neighborhood of Harlem. In a place where even the policemen were Colored, Tim had little trouble getting clients now. He was so good that even Whites often sought his assistance.

Like the woman who'd hired him for this job. Thin, pale, brunette, and with most unusual ridges on her nose, she had come to him in tears, and poured out her soul about her priceless family heirloom that had been looted from her home by vicious gangsters. A long, heart wrenching tale, which was without doubt a pathetic lie. For starters, she'd claimed to have lived in Iowa her entire life, and then talked about riding the subway regularly. Second, her tears became less sympathetic when he caught the strong whiff of onion on her. And finally, when he asked her why, of all people, she was seeking help from him, she'd "admitted" that he physically reminded her so _very_ much of her dear, departed father. Tim could only imagine the expression she must've seen on his face, after pulling that card. She had told him that her name was Brigid Marquis, and by the end of their meeting, Tim hadn't even believed that.

But it didn't matter whether Tim believed her story or her name. What he _did_ believe was the five-hundred dollars she paid him. And that was just the security deposited. She'd promised far more if and when he found her poor dead father's silver bird statue. Weeks of searching had taken Tim across the country, to San Francisco. There, finally, he'd admitted to himself that he needed help.

Ned Felix was another private investigator, who lived here in California. Tim had gotten a hold of Ned over the phone, and the two had agreed to work on this hunt together, and split the cost—with the permission of "Brigid Marquis." Ned lived in a small town on the outskirts of San Francisco, and agreed to meet Tim at a little saloon that catered to integrated crowds, where they could talk over their plans for chasing the bird.

Tim was sitting at the table now, waiting for Mr. Felix to arrive. He self-consciously pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and adjusted his gray fedora on the table. He checked his reflection in the rectangular mirrored pillar next to the table, making sure his pencil-thin mustache was still neatly trimmed.

Tim was a tad self-conscious about being one of the few people of color in this bar…until a man with a face colored like a goldfish and spotted like a giraffe entered the pub, waving at the unenthused bartender.

Tim squinted carefully at the creature, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. The man's clownish wardrobe was almost as bad as his facial features, sporting a yellow checkered suit and a red polka dotted bowtie, under a long trench coat. He had dreadful blonde muttonchops, and when he removed his bowler hat, a coarse main like a horse's was revealed. To Tim's horror, the monstrosity pulled out a chair at his table and had a seat, grinning as if they were best friends.

"You must be Mr. Excelsior!" the man picked up one of Tim's hands, which were both numb with shock, and shook it violently. "I'm Ned Felix, so _glad_ to meet you in person!"

"The pleasure is entirely mine." Tim forced a smile.

For some reason, smiles always felt unnatural to Tim, even when he wasn't being introduced to anthropomorphic goldfish.

"If you'll forgive me Mr. Excelsior," Felix rambled on. "I figured, when you said you were from Harlem, that you'd be a Colored gentleman; but I don't think I've seen such ears or eyebrows on anyone before."

Tim was used to such curiosity from strangers regarding his ears and face. In fact, it had almost certainly contributed to his status as a loner, even in his own community.

"My grandmother," Tim explained, "Was Dutch."

"Aaaah, of course!" Felix said.

"If you'll forgive me," Tim attempted another small smile, "I've never seen anyone with spots or hair quite like yours."

"Well I'm not originally from here." Felix admitted. "I'm from England. My British skin probably isn't meant for this California heat."

The British origin would also explain the mutton chops and dreadful hair, Tim concluded, and he let the subject drop.

"This artifact," Tim pulled his notepad from his gray trench coat. "Was stolen by gangsters working for one Mickey Kazon. Whom you insist no longer has the bird."

"Doesn't have it." Felix confirmed. "Kazon had a hold of the bird for a time, but my sources tell me that he very recently, ah, 'punished' several of his underlings for 'losing his bird.'" Ned Felix chuckled darkly. "One of them turned up in a fisherman's net a few days ago. The other two are still missing."

Tim raised an eyebrow, taking notes. "Do you happen to know what organized crime Kazon was involved with? Italian, Jewish, Irish…?"

"Deltaslavonian."

It took a moment for the name to register in Tim's mind. "Of course. I might've guessed. The Deltaslavonian gangs are among the worst in California…"

* * *

The holonovel was playing on an array of wall panels in Engineering, like a twentieth-century surveillance camera. On one screen, Chakotay and Torres worked in an office. On another, Seven of Nine played a piano and chatted with patrons at a café. In another restaurant, Tuvok and Neelix were having a deep discussion over some drinks. Janeway was in a sitting room, talking to someone on an elegant ring-dial phone, while Paris and Kim played cards on the coffee table.

Just a few feet away, over a consol in a little corner, the Doctor was shown on another panel, seen from inside Sickbay. Vorik and Samantha Wildman stood at the consol, listening to the Doc's new findings.

"I was finally able to scan their brainwaves." The Doctor held his fist to his chin thoughtfully. "Their brains look _very_ similar to the way all of _yours_ did when you were brainwashed by the Quarrans. Their memories have definitely been tampered with. But their personalities—that is, their emotions, hormones, and reactions—_those_ seem unaltered."

"Like in France," Sam said slowly. "Naomi and I didn't see much of what went on, but we caught enough of the action through the window, and from what Neelix told us about his friends in the 'Resistance.' Everyone had different names, and different lives. But Captain Janeway was still the leader of the group, Commander Chakotay was a military leader, Tom and B'Elanna were in love, Seven couldn't obey orders…"

Vorik cocked his head at the screen where Tuvok and Neelix were now strolling down the dark street. His eyes moved to the next panel, where Seven was fixing her hair in a restroom mirror. The holodeck's setting "moved" with the player; when multiple players were in different "places" at once, the holodeck had ways of dividing itself and keeping up the illusion for each set of players.

"They seem to get close, at times, to noticing that something is wrong," the young Vulcan observed. "Tuvok and Neelix were both surprised by each other's appearances. Yet all it took to dissuade them from questioning it were brief explanations."

"Like a dream." Naomi said.

She and Icheb were leaning against the warp core's railing, munching from a bag of blue, syrup-covered baltha-tree buds (a popular Ktarian snack, high in sugar and sodium).

"How so?" Vorik asked her.

"You know, how when you're in a dream, you see weird things, and you just don't question it. But sometimes you start to wonder if something's off. And then, you either realize you're dreaming and wake up, _or_, someone in your dream gives you some kind of random explanation, and you just accept it."

"I once dreamed that Mezoti and the twins were aboard Voyager again," Icheb mused. "I vaguely recalled them being adopted, and asked Mezoti for an explanation. She said…something about how…the adoption was only in effect during a 'mission for quartz.' At the time, it seemed a reasonable enough explanation, and I accepted it."

The Doctor nodded. "Their brain patterns do have a bit in common with someone who's dreaming. Now that I think of it, I'm also seeing something similar to when those aliens invaded your minds, and caused you all to share the same dream."

"So," Sam held up a finger, watching Seven putting on her coat and leaving the café. "Someone put them into these roles, and altered their memories, but their subconscious is sort of…helping the charade along?"

"It looks that way," the Doctor said.

"Their subconscious must have had a _lot_ to do with it." A soft feminine voice cut in.

The speaker was a brunette woman with small dark eyes, in a gold uniform. Crewman Marina Jor, one of Chakotay's former Maquis. Jor was half-human and half-Betazoid. Her powers weren't strong enough to help Captain Janeway like the famous Deanna Troi had helped Captain Picard. But Marina Jor was known throughout the ship for her empathy, and was very good at reading people if she knew them.

"Their names," Jor said. "They're names aren't coincidences. Remember, when the Hirogen brainwashed people, they gave them variations of their real names. Kathryn Janeway became Katrine, B'Elanna became Brigitte…but this time they're even more detailed." She pointed to her old commander (having a midnight cup of coffee with B'Elanna at a café). "One of the holograms called Chakotay 'Professor Liberty.' The Liberty was one of Chakotay's Maquis ships."

Vorik turned to Jor. "The ship Voyager was assigned to catch was called the Val Jean."

"But Chakotay captained more than one ship in his time. Before the Val Jean, he captained the Liberty. I served aboard it, until it was destroyed in a battle and we had to abandon ship. The Maquis then reassigned him to the Val Jean."

Icheb was staring at the screens, fiddling with a half-eaten syrup-bud. "Captain Janeway is from a providence called Indiana."

"State." Naomi corrected him. "Providences are in Canada."

"Tuvok," Vorik noted, "Served aboard the U.S.S. Excelsior, under Captain Sulu."

"Chicago," Sam muttered. "Paris. Tommy Chicago, Tom Paris."

By now, a few other crewmen were listening in. One of them was Tabor, a male Bajoran, and close friend of Jor.

"So," Crewman Tabor eyed the screens skeptically. "The senior staff is essentially _playing the game_, making up their own identities and back stories, but they just don't _realize_ it…?"

"If not that," Vorik looked at the Bajoran darkly, "Then they are being controlled by an individual who knows them personally, and well."

The group stared at the screens in silence. A few crewmen at work around the dead warp core, and other parts of Engineering, glanced up at hearing Vorik's last sentence.

"Why does the puppet master want them all to go after a silver bird statue?" Kao-Li Xiong, a human fresh out of Starfleet Academy, called down from the upper level.

"It's just a cliché," Crewman Abdul Hadaad shrugged. "The detectives and gangsters go after some valuable item, to drive the plot. It's called a Mick…oh…Mick-something-or-other."

"I like the captain's eye patch." Naomi said, before popping another bud in her mouth. "And Commander Tuvok's mustache hair."

Samantha's blond hair flew as she whirled to glare at her daughter. "Naomi, you are taking this _far_ too well!"

"Why?" Naomi shrugged, another bud in her hand. "It's not like these things don't happen a lot onboard Voyager. A few weeks ago we were all brainwashed on Quarra. And before that we had a whole ship-full of Klingons beam aboard and start worshiping Lt. Torres' baby. If it was the Borg, or the Hirogen, or Species 8472, then yeah I'd be scared. But when was the last time someone actually _died_ on the holodeck? I mean I'm not saying it couldn't happen, I had a few nightmares about being trapped on the holodeck and everything trying to kill me, but it's not like smoke is going up and there are Borg cubes out every—"

"_Naomi_!" Sam groaned, rubbing her temples with both hands. "Muzzle it."

Naomi shrugged again, and flicked her bud into her mouth, like Tom Paris had shown her.

* * *

**A/N: A lot of online sources credit "Liberty" as the name of Chakotay's Maquis ship (although the episode "Repression" confirms that it was called the Val Jean—though he might have had more than one ship, who knows). **

**Janeway's eye-patch: people who have read my Mirror Universe fic ("Fairest in the Universe") have seen this shtick before. If you're tired of the Janeway eye-patch, I apologize. But I absolutely cannot have Janeway in an alternate reality, and not give her an eye-patch. Not after seeing Kate Mulgrew wearing it, in "NTSF:SD:SUV." **

**Crewmen Jor and Tabor appeared in the Season 7 episode "Repression." Jor's first name and species were not given, so I made them up. I didn't make her a full Betazoid, since Captain Janeway stated in "Dragon's Teeth" that she didn't have a Betazoid to help her tell if the aliens were lying to her or not. But, Jor's eyes and empathy seemed quite Betazoid to me. **

**In terms of the comical "explanations" for everyone's Klingon ridges, Borg implants, pointed ears, etc., I took inspiration from a hilarious episode of "Farscape" called "Won't Be Fooled Again." **


	3. Dangerous Lady

**A/N: I don't own "Voyager."**

* * *

As irritating as Ned Felix was to work with, Tim Excelsior had to admit that the man was resourceful. Ned had a network of "contacts" throughout California's underworld, criminals who he could pay with money, drinks, or sometimes just flattery, for useful information. On top of that, Ned knew how to intimidate; one might not have guessed from the man's cheery nature, but Ned had served in the war, just as Tim, and so many other men had.

"I lost my entire nuclear family in the Blitz." Ned said as they strolled down the crowded street, hands in their coat pockets. "My parents and siblings all lived in London, in the section that got it the worst. I almost hate to admit it, but I was fighting as much for revenge as I was to protect the Isle."

"There's nothing shameful about that." Tim's eyebrows didn't have much mobility, but the rest of his face and his voice showed his genuine sympathy. "I could say I've lost family too, but the truth is, I can at least get to sleep knowing that Janelle and the children are safe and sound."

"Are you divorced?" Ned asked, maybe a bit too casually.

They crossed a little bridge over a stream between the buildings, and stepped off into the "bad side" of town.

"Yes." Tim said finally. "After the War I found it…difficult to reconnect. It was my idea to end the marriage. I lied, and 'admitted' to having an affair, so we could file for a divorce. Janelle left Harlem, and took the children to live with her parents in Brooklyn. I'm hoping that in time, she'll find someone else."

Ned looked up at Tim, as if _his_ story was somehow more devastating than his own. "Does, does she know that you didn't really…?"

"She no doubt suspects…" they turned down an alley. "Janelle and the children have both tried to get back in contact. I've avoided them."

"You can't even tell them, how much you—?"

Tim seized Ned's arm and pulled him back, just in time to save him from the car that screamed into the alley. The rounded green Buick screeched to a halt a foot away from the brick wall it almost slammed into. Tim stared bug-eyed at the mad driver, and adjusted the glasses that had fallen crooked across his nose. A young white man was shifting the car into parking gear, looking at Ned and Tim with a combination of terror and sheepish embarrassment.

"Sorry about that!" the man called through the opened window.

The hopped out of the car. He wasn't wearing a coat—wasn't wearing anything over his white shirt, save suspenders and a necktie with Porky the Pig on it.

Ned spread his arms. "Tommy-boy!"

Tommy laughed, returning the hug with a pat on the back. "How's Kaaren?"

"Better than ever. A bit down that she can't work in her garden for another six months, but she's already planning out her crop for next spring. Last year her daffodils brought in almost more money than I did!" Ned turned to Tim. "My wife sells flowers in the spring and summer. Brings in a bit of extra dough." Ned suddenly jumped. "Oh! My apologies Tim! This is Tommy Chicago, one of my _best_ informants."

"Pleased to meet'cha!" Tommy shook Tim's hand enthusiastically.

"Likewise." Tim smiled toothily.

"Where we gonna discuss this, Ned?" Tommy glanced around the alley. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable talking right here. Or anywhere in L.A., come to think of it…"

"How about my place." Ned offered. "We'll discuss it over lunch. I can introduce Tim to the Missus, _and_ my famous fish and chips!"

_British food_. Another thing about his time oversees that Tim hadn't missed.

"I've not had fish and chips in a while!" Tim said, managing to fake some enthusiasm.

Tommy opened the door to the back seat of his car. "Sounds like a plan then!"

Ned and Tim slid into the back seat, careful not to sit on the fedora Tommy had left in the middle. Old and beaten, the hat was decorated with an assortment of funny trinkets in the brim, including a Joker's card.

Tommy began providing information as soon as the car was out into the country. Tim was grateful to have something to focus on, other than how nervous Tommy's driving made him. It wasn't exactly that Tommy was a _bad_ driver; on the contrary, he seemed able to swerve and stop the car at just the right moments, to avoid other vehicles, pedestrians, and squirrels. But Tommy was having entirely too much fun, treating the ride like some kind of roller coaster.

"For Pete's sake Mr. Chicago," Tim snapped, after close brush with a bus. "Slow down! You'll get us all killed—or worse, arrested."

"Sorry! Jeeze." Tommy brought the speed down a few notches. "So anyway, where was I?"

"The Bird," Ned said.

"The Bird! Right. It's in the possession of Miss Indiana now. Don't ask me where she's locked it up, I've got no clue. But I know she hasn't hocked it yet. The plan is to hold a little auction. But first she wants to spread the word. Miss Indiana knows a lot of big names, and she wants to invite them all to bid on that statue!"

Tim's eyebrows moved up, and he began rummaging through his coat for his notepad and pen. "Can you give us a few of those names?"

"I can give 'em to ya," Tommy laughed. "But I can't promise you'll believe 'em."

"Try me." Tim readied his pad and pen.

"Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano." Tommy said smoothly, as they dipped down a steep hill. "Benjamin Siegel was gonna be invited too, but I guess he won't be able to make iy, on account of a slight case of death."

"You're talking about Bugsy Siegel?" Tim's eyes widened, but stayed on his notepad. "The guy who built up Las Vegas?"

"That's the one. Only you didn't ever wanna call him 'Bugsy' to his face. He didn't like that." Tommy sounded like he was recalling a bad memory. "Anyway, Al Capone's getting an invitation too."

Tim's eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, but then he recalled, "Capone's out of prison now, isn't he."

"Yeah, he's living in Florida. But he's not doing so good. He was pretty sick last time I saw him. And he hasn't been too involved in the business since getting out of Alcatraz. I think he's retired. But who knows, he might get himself wheeled over to California to see his old friend's daughter."

Ned looked impressed. "Indiana's old man worked knew Capone?"

"Are you kidding? Her dad was Eddie O'Hara, one of the biggest bootleggers in California! He knew all of the top gangsters."

"You've been working for Miss Indiana long, I take it?" Tim said.

Tommy shook his head. "Nope. Only met her last week."

Tommy turned, bringing the car into a gravel driveway. They were at Ned's house, a little baby-blue structure surrounded by red and gold leaved trees. The cute second-story windows were squeezed between the triangular edges of the brown roof.

Ned's wife Kaaren already had the door opened when the three men stepped out of the car. Kaaren greeted Tommy and Tim with a low, soft voice and welcoming manner. She was Hollywood's ideal of innocent, feminine beauty: petite, pale, and blue-eyed, with blond curls falling naturally around her shoulders. Her makeup was dollish, nothing glamorous. She wore a casual, cherry-red dress with floral designs, and a white pointed collar. Two matching red ribbons were tied into her hair. The only abnormal feature, Tim noticed, where her ears, which were pointed similarly to his. They had more folds though, and were a bit more rounded.

The three men continued their discussions, while both Ned and Kaaren worked on lunch. Tommy and Tim sat at the table.

"So you both cook," Tim said, during an awkward pause in the conversation.

"I work part-time as a chef," Ned searched his crowded counter and plucked up the salt. "The Privet-Eye business can be pretty slow at times."

Tommy jokingly thumbed over to Kaaren. "And she helps him work on the car when it breaks down, and pumps the gas when they need to fill the tank!"

"Tommy, stop!" Kaaren laughed.

After everyone's laughter died down, Tim asked, "_Do_ you help Ned with the car, and…?"

Kaaren's eyes widened. "_Goodness_ no!" she turned back to the soup she was preparing, and chuckled, "What kind of girl do you think I _am_, Mr. Excelsior?"

Tim shrugged. "Times _have_ been rough, what with the Depression and the War. My own wife had to take work as a maid, all through the Depression, and while I was away fighting in the…" He dropped the subject, realizing he didn't want to talk about his family anymore. He took off his glasses, and began casually cleaning them with his handkerchief. "So, Mr. Felix, Mr. Chicago. What we have to figure out now is, where would Miss Kitty Indiana hide a priceless silver bird statue…?"

* * *

Billie Torres spent the first half of her Saturday browsing antique and pawn shops, casually conversing with the owners about their unique items, and in particular, a silver bird statue that she'd "seen somewhere, but can't remember what shop." She and Charles knew the bird was somewhere in California, and were pretty confident that it was specifically somewhere in San Francisco. But so far, Billie had no new leads.

She exited another store, tucking her red trench coat around her. It was starting to flurry—which was serious weather, for California, even in November. She stared at the ground, watching the white snowflakes pile up. She caught her reflection as she walked by a store window, watching the flurries pile up on her little red hat, weighing down the tiny feather stuck in its brim.

"Oh!" Billie gasped, as she bumped into another woman. Her hand immediately went to her stomach, to ensure that her child was alright.

"Oh goodness, excuse me!" the other woman said quickly.

"I'm sorry," Billie shook her head. "I should watch where I'm—"

"_Billie_?"

Billie looked up.

The other woman was thin and brunette, huddled in a white fur coat. Her hair was swept up into elegant rolls, two coming up in the middle of her head, almost like horns. A small lock of curls was draped over one shoulder, touching the pearls around her neck. A little black barrette rested on the side of her head (probably propped on a roll of hair, or maybe pinned on). The woman's eyebrows where long and severe, her make-up dark and striking. The only feature that might've kept this woman from being a fashion model was the line of ridges running down her nose.

Billie's jaw dropped. "_Seraphine_?" Her lips wavered between nervous laughter and a smile. "Seraphine Chaput?"

"Billie!" Seraphine squealed, and pulled her into a hug. "Billie deary, how've you been? Oh!" Seraphine glanced down and grinned. "You're married!"

Billie's lips parted, but she didn't respond right away. "Seraphine I'm…glad you're alright! When the Nazis invaded France,"

Seraphine shook her head. "I was fine, dear. Fine. Life didn't change much for a lot of us, in Occupied France. Say, are you hungry? I'll bet the little one is."

It took almost five minutes for Seraphine to talk Billie into letting her take her out to lunch. The two women ate at a little café, seated at tall barstools by the large window, watching the hustle and bustle on the street. Their coats lay draped over the backs of their chairs. It was funny, how little the two women's taste in fashion had changed since high school. Billie wore a white (maternity) suit-dress, with black buttons and trim, and a rounded sailor-like collar. She'd rolled a portion of her hair over her forehead, in an attempt to hide her ridges. The rest was drawn back into a bun. Seraphine's dress was far less modest. The cute bow and brass flower pin on the chest only drew attention to the low top.

"I'll tell you Billie," Seraphine munched her sandwich, gazing out the window. "that exchange program to Chicago was one of the best times of my life. I always wanted to see America again, after that. And after the War, I decided, to Hell with Europe."

"You fit right in!" Billie shook her head. "Your English was always just perfect, no accent. I'd never have guessed you were from France, if I hadn't known. I'm so sorry I stopped writing, Seraphine. But, well, times got tough, I lost track of a lot."

"I'd have to say the same." Seraphine said. "Those stinking Nazis really made trying to keep contact across seas impossible."

"What're the odds," Billie stared out the window. "Both of us, right on this street, in San Francisco… I don't even live in this city, you know. I just came down here for the day."

"You looked like you were in a hurry." Her old school friend eyed her. "You were pretty distracted there."

Billie changed the subject. "So what've you been up to, Seraphine?"

Seraphine's eyes shifting, as if she were embarrassed. "I'm a maid." she said finally. "Gotta pay the bills somehow, at least until I can find myself a wealthy man."

Billie now remembered one of the things that had always annoyed her about her old friend. While Billie had spent high school working towards, well, _working_—teacher, secretary, model, Billie didn't care what, just as long as she did something other than staying locked up in some house—Seraphine had never voiced any ultimate goal other than landing herself a loaded husband.

"The one I work for now's got it made," Seraphine shrugged. "_And_ he's single. Bit old though. And not exactly handsome. I swear, I spend over half my work day just dusting and polishing off his collections."

"What kind of collections?" Billie failed to hide the sudden, urgent interest of her voice.

Seraphine continued, as if she hadn't noticed. "Gems, statues, ancient artifacts. Mickey Kazon—that's my employer—he's a collector. He's got _friends_." She eyed Billie meaningfully.

Billie's voice dropped into a whisper. "Seraphine are you working for a—a gangster?"

Seraphine pursed her long lips. "I've never really asked him. After all, it's not just the kind of thing that comes up during your typical conversation."

"I work for a collector too," Billie said carefully. "He's an anthropologist." She hesitated, then whispered, "Seraphine, can you keep a secret?"

Seraphine shifted on her stool, looking excited to hear the gossip. "I just arrived in America two weeks ago," the Frenchwoman said quietly. "Who would I tell?"

"Your employer."

Seraphine rolled her eyes. "Mr. Kazon and I barely even talk. He's half-deaf. C'mon dear, what's the gossip?"

Billie's eyes moved around the crowded café, to ensure that no one was paying attention to them. Under the noise of the restaurant, Billie said in almost a whisper, "I'm looking for a silver statue of a bird." Seraphine's eyes slowly widened, as Billie gave a quick description of the statue. "…We tracked it here to San Francisco. Seraphine, this isn't just about money," Billie pleaded. "That bird was my father's, it belongs to my family. I've got no one, Seraphine. My Tommy left me, my father left me. My mother's working as a maid for some sea captain, because the two of us together couldn't afford to support her or put her in a rest home, and my baby's going to grow up fatherless just like—" Billie stopped, feeling the lump form in her throat.

Seraphine reached down her top and pulled a handkerchief up from between her breasts. A couple of male heads turned in the café. An elderly gentleman glanced up from his newspaper, and got stuck staring. Seraphine offered Billie the handkerchief.

Billie wiped away the forming tear in her eye. "I'm fine Seraphine, but thanks."

Seraphine shrugged, and stuffed the handkerchief back in. Billie feared that old man would have a heart attack.

"Mick—Mr. Kazon—he had a statue like that." Seraphine whispered. "I haven't seen it around, so maybe he's sold it. But if you'd like, I can possibly arrange a time for you two to talk. Maybe he'd be willing to sell it to you, or tell you who he's sold it to."

"You'd do that for me?"

"What are friends for?"

* * *

Samantha Wildman spoke slowly, staring at the screen. "Who the hell put _Seska_ in this program?"

"That's Seska?" Naomi moved to get a better look.

"And Kes," The Doctor's brow was furrowed intensely. "Mr. Paris was fond of her, but I'm sure he'd have spoken to Neelix before including her." His eyes moved back to the screen with Seska and Torres. "And Seska…distasteful as Paris's sense of humor can be, I _know_ he wouldn't do that to B'Elanna or Chakotay."

"No," Sam agreed. "No he wouldn't."

Naomi's eyebrows turned up, as she attempted an analysis. "So Kes and Seska…came out of Neelix and B'Elanna's subconscious?"

Icheb offered, "If someone is controlling this simulation, it might be easier to simply pull people up from the victim's real memories, rather than trying to create new ones from 'scratch.'"

* * *

After lunch, Tim and Ned took the train down to L.A., and spent the afternoon talking to contacts that had information on Kitty Indiana. They decided to finish the day with a little trip to Indiana's club, the Queen's Cabin. Tim felt they were both a bit underdressed, as they neared the flashing neon sign. A melting pot of people were pouring in—whites, blacks, Asians—but all of them were dressed much nicer than the two detectives. And standing out was not something they wanted tonight.

"Shame Tommy couldn't join us," Tim muttered to Ned. "He'd have been useful right about now."

"That he would have," Ned eyed the pirate queen on the sign above them. "But Tommy's supposed to be running other errands for Kitty tonight. Anyway, I want _someone_ to keep an eye on Kaaren, whenever I think might getting involved in something dangerous."

Tim nodded. "There were times I left Janelle with a loaded pistol, and asked her not to answer the door before looking out the window to see who it was."

Ned shook his head. "Kaaren wouldn't know how to use a gun. And she's far too good-hearted and naive for her own good."

Tim was slightly disturbed by how Ned seemed to view his wife like a child. But that was probably typical, in a May-December romance like theirs.

The club was packed, and Tim almost feared they wouldn't be able to get a table. But to his relief, they were seated near the middle of the room. They sipped drinks and smoked, trying to look like they were relaxing, while taking in as much of the club as they could. A gorgeous woman sang on the stage in a black sleeveless dress, with matching gloves that passed her elbows, gold hair swept dramatically over one shoulder. It was some low, sultry tune Tim didn't recognize.

"…_if you had prepared…twenty years ago! …Ya wouldn't be a-wandering from door to door, why don't'cha dooo riiiight…like some other men dooo…_"

Tim found himself distracted less by the woman's beauty than by the metallic-looking disfigurements on her face. This poor girl could probably have landed a contract with Hollywood or some music studio, if not for that. He had to admire Indiana for hiring her.

"There!" Ned whispered, and pointed with his cigarette. "I think that's her."

Tim looked in the direction Ned was pointing, and saw a middle-aged woman chatting with a waiter. The top of her dress was snug-fitting black velvet, long-sleeved with gold embroidery around the square-shaped top. The long skirt was made of a smoother, gold material. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled up into two long roles that curved around her head like a crown, coming together at the center over her forehead. A gold eye-patch, made from the same material as her skirt, covered one eye.

"That's Kitty Indiana." Tim agreed.

Ned whispered, "How should we…go about this?"

"With patience." Tim cautioned. "We observe. Watch where she goes, when she's not with her guests. What doors she uses, which keys she opens them with."

"Reconnaissance mission!" Ned whispered enthusiastically, bouncing the joint in his hands. "Got'cha!"

Tim repressed a sigh and moved his eyes back around the room, not wanting to be caught staring at the lady of the house.

Behind the back curtain of the stage, Harry Kimitsu was screwing his clarinet together, watching the two strange men from the crack between the curtain and the wall.

* * *

Charles regained consciousness rather quickly this time. The crowd was still cheering for his opponent. That was good; it was extremely irritating to wake up in a hospital. His head still throbbing, he pushed himself up, and was helped out of the ring by his trainer. It always hurt Chuck's pride, just a little, to lose a match—even on purpose. But watching men in the audience not-so-discretely swapping cash, as bets were won and lost, reminded him of the wad of bills he'd find under his office door come Monday.

"You did good son," Boothby, his elderly trainer, led him through the crowd. "Not as good as in your _real_ fights, but I suppose we all could use a little extra dough here and there."

"Point taken." Chuck snapped.

"Hmm? Oh I'm not criticizing you sonny! Throwing matches for money's one of the oldest traditions in the—"

"Oy!" A little errand boy Charles knew, a newsie who sometimes sold papers on the corner outside, smacked Chuck's arm and thumbed behind him. "Oy, Double-T! Guy at the desk says you got a phone call from a guy named Billy!"

The boy only knew Chuck as the "Tattooed Terror," and had shorted it to Double-T.

"Thanks, kid."

Billie had agreed to call him that night, so they could exchange updates on their hunt for the bird. He didn't even bother going to the front desk to confirm who'd called him. He left the gym and went straight to the payphone in the hallway. He almost tried picking the phone up with his gloves on. He yanked and the laces with this teeth. By the time Boothby caught up to him, Chalres had both gloves off.

"Need a nickel?" his trainer offered him one.

Charles realized his mistake, and took the coin. "Thanks." Boothby was still standing there, while he was dialing. "I'll pay you back."

"You don't have to." Boothby took the gloves from him. "I'll put these away for you."

"Thanks," Charles didn't move. "…G'night Boothby."

Boothby gave him a look, taking the hint, and finally left.

Billie didn't have a home phone. Only seriously well-off people did. He called her apartment complex, and asked for Billie Torres. Billie was apparently waiting right there in the lounge for him to call back, and was at the phone in seconds.

"How's the headache?" Billie asked, instead of saying hello.

"What makes you think I lost?"

"Just a guess. Listen Charles, I think I have a lead on our bird."

"What's the name?"

"Mickey Kazon. An old friend of mine works for him. I bumped into her just today. We went to high school together. She's a maid now, working for Kazon. He's probably involved with organized crime, but she doesn't know which one. He's a collector, and she said he had a statue exactly like—"

"You told her about the bird?" Charles wasn't sure if he was angry, but his voice definitely had an edge to it.

"She's one of my oldest friends Charles, I can trust her. She says Kazon had it, but he doesn't anymore. He might've sold it, or else someone stole it. She's arranged for me to meet with him tomorrow, and we'll discuss it. Far as I know, there's nothing illegal about trying to buy back a family heirloom, so I don't see why we need all the secrecy anyw—"

"We might not be _able_ to _buy_ it, for what that statue's worth, Billie."

Silence, on Billie's end.

"Listen, I don't want you going to talk with that man without me. What time are you scheduled to meet him?"

"One. In the afternoon."

"I'll pick you up. We'll go together."

"All right."

They wrapped up the conversation, and Chuck told Billie a little bit about his fight. After that he changed, and went outside to call down a cab. Tonight was really his night; there was a taxi sitting right out front, almost as if he were expected. Charles pulled up the collar of his trench coat, and pulled his fedora down a bit, hoping to hide some of his injuries; he didn't want to frighten the driver. The window was rolled down.

"This cab taken?" Charles asked, approaching the car.

"Matter of fact it is, but the lady won't mind sharin.' She's one of my regulars."

Charles hadn't realized that cab drivers _had_ "regulars," but shrugged and got inside. Before he could even tell the driver where he wanted to go, the other door suddenly opened, and a woman who'd been smoking by the parking meter slid in, flicking her unfinished cigarette out onto the street. The car was taking off before she'd even pulled the door shut. The woman's face was hidden by a little black veil, dangling from her tiny barrette. Up close though, he recognized the eyes he saw through it.

"Hello Charles," she said, pulling a pistol from her fur coat and pointing it at him.

Charles owned a pistol, but didn't have it on him.

His eyes flicked to the cab's mirror, to see the driver's reaction. There was none. The guy kept the car moving forward, like this was all part of the plan. The woman smiled.

Charles had just spent seven rounds getting rid of all his anger from the week, and now he was boiling back up. Glowering at her, he returned her greeting. "Seraphine."


	4. Night Watch

**A/N: Minor change: Ned and Kaaren's house isn't one-story anymore. I've made the change to the last** **chapter.**

* * *

"Where are we going."

Charles noticed the cab driver's expression in the mirror. He seemed to think Charles was taking his kidnapping a bit too well. Fact was, Charles had seen far worse situations in the War. On top of that, he often froze up under pressure, seeming expressionless and monotone. Which often worked in his favor. Unfortunately, Seraphine knew him better, and could tell she was intimidating him.

"We're just going for a ride around the neighborhood." Seraphine kept the gun trained on Charles.

"At least fifty people know I was _in_ this neighborhood—"

"For heaven's sake Charles, I'm not gonna dump you in a river. I just want to talk."

"About?"

"Your silver bird."

She grinned, watching his reaction.

It suddenly hit him. "You're the 'friend' who spoke to Billie."

Seraphine looked honestly puzzled. "Who's Billy?"

He didn't answer. He wished he hadn't said Billie's name.

"I've been in living France until two weeks ago." Seraphine was staring at him, with what looked like genuine confusion. "Was this Billy fellow someone from your troop, who was serving in France?"

Improvising, Charles said, "Maybe."

Seraphine crossed her legs under her gun. "Let's talk about the bird, Chuckles."

God he hated when she called him that.

"Why?" Confident she didn't want him dead just yet, he allowed emotion to creep back into his voice. "Why do you want the bird? What's the matter, your Nazi friends wouldn't share any of the silver and gold they looted, from the Jews and Gypsies and Pols who they gassed? Figured you'd hop over here and loot the Indians, before Hitler reached us first? Well you're a little late, your fuehrer's dead."

"Yes, I know. I read the papers." She cocked her head, looking at him innocently. "You know I never really believed in the Nazi regime. They threatened to kill my mother if I didn't help them."

"_That_ would've been some accomplishment, considering you told me both your parents died when you were six."

Seraphine pursed her lips, putting on a schoolgirl expression that said, _oops!_

"I'll be frank Chuck. I don't want the bird. I'm just curious to see how far _you'll_ go to get it. It was so cute to watch you running around Paris like a mouse in a maze, trying to catch the Nazi spy in the Resistance. I just have to see it one more time!"

Charles had a lot of bad memories from the War, and Seraphine's cat-and-mouse games in France just might have been the worst.

"I'll help you get a head start." Keeping her pistol trained on him, she used her other ring-encrusted hand to fish out a scrap of paper from her fur coat. "Here's your lead."

Reluctantly, he took the paper. It was an article cut from a newspaper. At the top was a portrait of a Colored man, with a long face and heavy-lidded eyes. His ears and eyebrows were pointed, and the eyes behind his round glasses were almost devoid of expression. His thin mustache made Charles think of _Gone With the Wind._ The article was dated 1945. Skimming it, he found it described the man as a Harlem P.I., who'd solved some big murder case right after returning from serving in the War.

"This guy's got my statue?"

"Not yet. But he's close. To the bird _and_ to you. He's here in California, in L.A. Follow him, and he'll lead you to the bird."

"And then kill me."

"Maybe. Depends which one of you is more determined I suppose. Personally, I'm putting my money on you, Charles."

"Are you being literal?"

Making bets on life-and-death matters like this was the kind of thing Seraphine would do. He was sure she knew enough scumbags rotten enough to play with her.

Seraphine's eyes rolled innocently. "Maybe."

Charles was tempted, so tempted, to crush the paper into a ball and throw it at her. But he didn't dare. He tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. "I'll think about it. I have to ask though…"

Seraphine gave him a look, urging him to continue.

"…why I shouldn't phone the police as soon as I've found the statue, and tell them I know a Nazi collaborator in the U.S."

Seraphine turned to her driver. "Pull over."

They were on the outskirts of the city, by the beach. It would have been pitch black if not for the city lights. No one else was around, no sound except hundreds of crickets chirping loudly. The driver turned and rested one arm over the back of his seat. He watched Seraphine and Charles, looking amused.

Seraphine turned back to Charles. "I have powerful friends out here, Chuck. I have powerful friends all over the world, and I'll _always_ find you. If you tell _anyone_ about my past political affiliations, I'll have them killed. And if you tell anyone about this little meeting tonight, I'll kill them myself. What was your friend's name…Billy? Tell him, and I won't just kill Billy. If Billy has a wife, children, a dog, a cat, a baby, a pregnant wife," Charles blood turned cold. "a grandmother, a grandfather, a hamster…"

Seraphine suddenly brought her gun around. Her driver had time to widen his eyes, in the split second before she shot him.

Charles was frozen against his seat, unable to look away from the red windshield. He felt cold metal against the side of his head, and Seraphine's hot breath in his ear.

"Don't make a sound now."

In the car mirror, he could see her holding him hostage. She pulled a handkerchief from her breasts. Once, long ago, he'd have found that cute and funny. She slammed the cloth over his nose and mouth. It reeked of some kind of chemical. His head began to feel heavy.

"Don't worry," she purred in his ear. "This is just a bad dream."

* * *

After the blonde woman finished her song, she exited the stage and a troop of jazz players took her place. It might've been Ned's imagination, but he could have sworn that the young Oriental man playing the clarinet kept looking back and him and Tim.

The blonde took a seat by herself, near the stage. Such a glamorous-looking girl, in that topless black dress and gloves, looked a bit out of place sitting by herself. When she ordered a glass of water from the waiter, Ned noted how her voice, though polite, held none of the smooth seduction it had when she'd been singing. Actually, she was reminding him of Tim, with her stiff posture and voice. She looked like she was trying to fit in and act casual, but secretly didn't know how. It was almost as if she and Tim had arrived here in a rocket ship from some alien planet, and were trying desperately to appear human.

"I have a plan Mr. Excelsior," Ned whispered to his partner. "That singer must have access to a back room. She seems like someone you would get along with. You can strike up a conversation with her, maybe trick her into giving away where the keys are and which door she uses. I can go have a word with Miss Indiana, keep her distracted."

Tim spun his cigarette between his fingers. "Mr. Felix, maybe it's different across the pond. But here in America, it is _never_ a good idea for a Colored man to try 'striking up a conversation' with a blonde white woman, in public at least."

Ned frowned, and looked around at the people in the café. "But we're in _California_, Tim. I thought that sort of thing was more of a concern in, in places like…"

Tim popped one eyebrow. "Like Georgia."

Ned recalled that Tim had grown up on a farm in the South. No wonder he was such a cautious man. Ned realized, suddenly, that while he had a great network of connections and a smooth social manner among California's criminals and lowlifes, he knew practically nothing about the classier America's social rules. Britain—at least the Britain he'd grown up in—wasn't very diverse, so if there were any rules regarding how the races should interact, Ned hadn't learned them. In this melting pot of California, he'd just treated everyone the same.

"You know more about the matter than me," Ned admitted. "How about if I talk to the girl, and you go meet Indiana."

"That might be a better idea."

Though Kitty was a "white woman" too, it was a very different situation. She wouldn't come across as sexually vulnerable to anyone as the singer. And her being the lady of the house, speaking to a mere patron, would make Tim look like the less powerful one. It wouldn't draw much attention.

The young man in with the clarinet was _definitely_ looking at them now.

Tim suddenly elbowed Ned. "Now."

Kitty Indiana was by the bar, speaking to her barkeeper. Ned was momentarily distracted by the woman's gold eye patch, matching her skirt. It went along almost comically with her regal hairdo and attire.

Tim pushed out his chair and grabbed his drink.

Ned looked back and forth, between Indiana and the singer. "But wait, what's our story…?"

"We're looking for jobs." Tim said without missing a beat.

Ned snapped his fingers and pointed at Tim, liking the idea.

While Tim casually crossed the room to the bar, Ned picked up his glass and came up to the blonde woman's table.

"Is someone sitting here?" he asked, placing his hand on the empty chair.

The woman froze, with her glass of water in the air. Her blue eyes were stuck on him, conveying some mixture of surprise and terror, with a side of _You're joking, right?_

"Well don't look at me like I'm bloody Frankenstein," Ned said jovially. "It's just a yes-no question."

"No, no one is sitting here." The woman sipped her water, blinking her thick black lashes rapidly.

As Ned took a seat, he suddenly realized that the woman might fear he was flirting with her. So he added, "My wife loves that last song you did, it's one of her favorites. I think she'd have liked the way you performed it."

The woman instantly seemed to relax. "Thank you."

Ned glanced back at the bar, where Tim was talking to Indiana. "Did it, ah, take you long to get this job?"

"No." the girl shook her head, causing her ruby earrings to wobble. "I've known Kitty Indiana for a few years. This job was really just handed to me."

"Oh. Well, I'm an accomplished chef, always on the lookout for new gigs. Would you call this a good place to work, Miss…?"

"Annie. Annie Hanson." She smiled politely, but made no effort to hide her eyes moving up and down Ned's odd face. "And you are?"

_Annie Hanson. _Tommy Chicago had given Ned and Tim that name. She was in on the bird statue plot.

"Oh I'm sorry! Nathanial Felix, but friends call me Ned. At least they would if I had any friends." he chuckled.

Annie smiled at the clichéd joke. "Pleased to meet you Ned." She was warning up to him, he could tell. "I don't think I've seen you in here before. This your first time here, in the Cabin?"

"It is." he nodded. "I don't normally come to places this fancy, but a little bird told me Miss Indiana might be hiring."

Annie hesitated before sipping her water again. Ned had chosen his words carefully, to see how she'd react to the word 'bird.'

"I'm not certain if Indy's hiring right now," Annie said smoothly. "But I'm sure if you'll have time to ask her tonight. She always makes rounds to talk to her customers. Out of curiosity, what kind of job…?"

"Chef. You haven't lived until you've tasted by gumbo! I used to cook for my whole troop when I was serving for England." Ned allowed himself to reminisce. "My pal Willy—rest his soul—said when he tasted my Swedish meatballs, it took him back in time to when he was a kid, no War, no Nazis, no—"

Annie's glass almost slipped out of her hand, but she caught it.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Ned rushed his apology.

He had no idea what he'd said this time.

Annie smiled briefly. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit tired. It's been a long week."

Ned nodded. "Well, maybe you should…grab a short nap before your next song."

Annie's blue eyes went to a little staircase against the wall, just a few yards from their table. Without looking at Ned, she replied, "I think I'll be fine. I just need to rehydrate myself."

Ned wondered if he'd said too much, been too obvious. Did she suspect something?

He looked over at the bar. Tim was laughing with Miss Indiana. Now there was something you didn't see often—Tim Excelsior genuinely laughing. (The polite chuckles he'd throw out during conversations didn't count in Ned's book.)

"Oh!" Ned feigned surprise. "There's Miss Indiana now! I think I'll take your advice, ask her about the job. Thanks for your help, Miss Hanson, pleasure to meet you!" he went to dip his hat, then remembered he'd left it on his and Tim's table.

Annie smiled. "Pleasures' all mine. Good luck!"

As Ned moved across the room to the bar, he glanced over his shoulder once more. Annie was sipping her drink, keeping her eyes down on the table.

Tim and Indiana were leaning on the bar's counter. Indiana was facing the bar, resting her velvet-covered arms on the counter. Tim was turned in the opposite direction, leaning his back against the bar. He was holding his glass, which was almost empty. He was finishing up some joke.

"…and then the German says, 'that's not the Fuhrer, that's my wife!'"

Kitty Indiana blew through her lips, trying to contain her laughter.

"I like you Mr. Excelsior!" Indiana patted him on the shoulder. "You're hired."

Ned's jaw almost dropped.

"Just like that?" Tim asked, preparing his glass for another swig.

"Just like that." Indiana moved around, leaning against the counter in the same direction as Tim. "I want my Roulette Wheel back up and running as soon as possible."

Tim took notice of Ned, and suddenly gestured to him with his glass. "Miss Indiana! Meet one of my oldest friends, Ned Felix!"

_Friend_! Tim had called him his friend!

Ned held out his hand, to take Indiana's and kiss it. But instead, she grabbed it like a man and shook it firmly.

"Mr. Felix! Are you job hunting too?"

It took him a second to respond. "Oh yes! Yes, I'm a chef, and you haven't lived until you've tasted my chips and fish…"

Behind the bar, in the mirrored wall behind the shelves of alcohol bottles, Ned could see Annie Hanson standing by the edge of the stage. The Oriental man was keeling at the edge, holding his clarinet. He was listening intently, while Annie leaned over with her hands on her hips, whispering something that seemd urgent into his ear.

"You can both get started right away if you'd like," Indiana offered.

"Thank you," Tim said quickly. "But we promised both our wives we'd be home before midnight,"

Kitty checked a stylish gold clock behind the bar. It was almost one in the morning. "It looks like you're already late. I'm sorry to've kept you."

"Not a problem!" Tim held up one hand.

They bid Indiana goodbye, and crossed back through the crowd, towards the door.

"Why are we _really_ leaving?" Ned whispered. "You have no wife to get home to, and mine is safe and sound."

"Because," Tim whispered, back into his serious demeanor again. "I need to figure out how the game of Roulette works, before I start the job." He added, "I think I may also want to figure out which regular players are the most important to please. Miss Indiana's last Roulette Man suffered a tragic accident a week ago, when he tripped down a staircase—and onto some bullets."

"Oh my word…"

Once they were back onto the street, Tim made a suggestion. "If you get this job, perhaps Kaaren can accompany us to the club. She's got an agreeable personality, she'd probably make a good informant."

"No, no and no!" Ned shook his head fiercely. "Kaaren is far too beautiful to be left on her own in a place like that."

"Yet you'll leave her alone with that cab driver?" Tim almost sounded irritated.

Ned laughed. "Tommy's not Kaaren's type. She may be willing to put up with me, but she'd never stoop _that_ low!"

* * *

White, lacy curtains billowed in the breeze. It was still dark out. The little clock on the bandstand said it was past one in the morning. Tommy had already put his underpants and undershirt back on, and was pulling on his trousers. Kaaren sat on the bed, back in her smooth white night slip and ruffled panties. Her blonde curls were tousled over her head in tangles.

"Well," Kaaren sighed softly. "I suppose I'd best make myself back up for Ned."

"Why don't you just go to _sleep_?" Tommy threw his shirt back on and began to button it up. "I'll be downstairs reading the funnies in the paper, and tell Ned I was there and you were up here all night."

Kaaren shook her head. "I couldn't sleep a wink, Tommy. I'll be up all night worrying about him anyway."

Tommy laughed ironically. "You didn't seem too 'worried' about him a few minutes ago."

Kaaren looked away, towards the window. "There's someone else, isn't there Tommy."

"Maybe." Tommy searched the floor for his socks. "It'd only make us even, wouldn't it?"

"Who's Billie?"

Tommy froze, in the middle of pulling a sock on.

"You've called me Billie a few times."

Tommy shook his head, and finished pulling on his sock. "Someone I don't deserve."

"Oh but you deserve _me_? Because I _am_ good enough for a scummy 'coward' like you?"

Tommy threw her a glare over his shoulder. "_You_ came begging to _me _Kaaren. All that talk about how you couldn't stand being Ned's wife. How he treats you like a child, won't ever let you have fun." Tommy glanced at the empty champagne glasses on the windowsill, and the ashtray of cigarette butts. "You specifically told me that all you wanted was to 'have fun.' You _never_ made 'true love' a requirement."

"Yes but," she looked at the floor. "When you said, that other night, after you took me to see that cowboy picture…how I made you forget about all your troubles…and I just…felt the same way about you."

Great, she was crying now.

Not loudly, at least. Just a couple of tears.

"Ah," Tommy moved onto the bed, with one sock on, and put his arm around her. "I'm sorry doll, I really am. I just think…" he gaped, searching for the words. "Maybe we've taken this little adventure as far as we—"

A flash of light out the window caught his attention. Ned's car was pulling up.

"Aw," Tommy swore.

Kaaren quickly stashed the ashtray, glasses, and empty champagne bottle in the trash can, and tied the trash bag shut.

"He'll smell it," Tommy warned.

"Then I was doing it on my own. Because I was just curious." Kaaren hurried back under the covers, and shoed Tommy away. "_Go_!"

Tommy found his shoes and Porky Pig tie, left the bedroom, and ducked into the water closet. _I came upstairs to check on Kaaren…because…I thought she was in trouble, but she was just talking in her sleep. Then I went to use the toilet. _

Tommy came down the stairs a couple minutes later, to find Ned locking the door, and Tim looking out the living room window.

"We having company soon?" Tommy leapt over the staircase railing, and grabbed his coat from the sofa, rummaging for the pistol in the pocket.

"Don't think so," Tim's eyes were still on the window, but he held out a waving hand to Tommy. "Ned thought someone might've been following us, but I think we're safe for now."

"How's Kaaren?" Ned asked Tommy.

"Fast asleep. I just checked on her, before using the loo." Tommy stretched. "Y'know Ned, sometimes I think you don't give her enough credit. She's survived a lot after all."

"She's survived more than any girl should have to." Ned said bitterly, checking the windows with Tim. "When I saved Kaaren from that ghetto, I promised her I'd never let anything happen to her again."

Tim, whose hands were parting the curtains of another window, turned to Ned. "I don't believe I'd heard _this_ one."

"Kaaren's German." Ned said. "Her family would've been perfectly safe if they'd stayed still and quiet, but they didn't agree with Hitler's agenda. They tried to escape, and got arrested instead. Her family was already gone by time I met her. Kaaren would've gone to a camp if I my troop hadn't shown up just in the nick of time."

Tommy had heard far more detailed accounts from Kaaren herself. He didn't like to be reminded of anything related to the War. In fact, he didn't like to be reminded of most things in his life prior to his coming to California.

"Any luck with the bird?" Tommy asked, dropping his gun back into his coat pocket.

"Maybe." Tim said. "We've both been hired on to work at Indiana's club. I'll be running the Roulette Wheel and Ned will be a chef. Actually Mr. Chicago, I was hoping perhaps you could teach me how to play."

Tommy had been in the middle of putting his coat back on. "I can explain a bit about the game right now, if you've got time, and if Ned doesn't mind."

"Not a bit." Ned moved to the kitchen. "I'll put on some coffee."

"Hey," Tommy called, folding up his jacket. "Does Indiana know that you two know me?"

"No," Tim took off his hat and hung it on the coat rack. "And I think we'll want to keep it that way. She only hired you on recently, she doesn't entirely trust you yet."

Tommy shrugged. "She trusted me enough to let me in on the bird."

Tim's eyes flicked over to Tommy, under low lids. "She didn't tell you where it was hidden. With you delivering the statue for her, she _couldn't_ keep it hidden from you. It's possible she only said what she had to, to ensure you stayed quiet for the time being."

Tommy didn't like what Tim was implying. Not one bit.

"I'll keep that in mind." Tommy said, flopping onto the couch and putting his feet up on the table.


	5. Detained

**A/N: For the record, this fic is set somewhere between the episodes "Friendship One" and "Renaissance Man."**

* * *

This was the first time the Doctor could recall attending a meeting in the briefing room with none of the other senior officers present. Most of the people at this table had hardly even seen the briefing room, in all the years they'd been aboard Voyager. (It would be seven soon, wouldn't it.) If Captain Janeway, Chakotay or Tuvok had any ideas as to which crewmembers should be defaults to senior officers when they were incapacitated, they hadn't left it written down anywhere. The Doctor and a few officers who worked with the senior staff frequently—like Vorik, Ayala, and Wildman—had clumsily taken over management of the ship themselves, and picked out a few others to fill certain jobs. The Doctor would have felt infinitely more confident that he could hold the ship together if he'd been able to transform himself into the Emergency Command Hologram; unfortunately, he needed Janeway or Chakotay's command codes to do that.

Lt. Miguel Ayala sat at the end of the table. The security officer had been left in charge of the bridge on a few occasions, and was the closest thing they had to a command officer. Ensign Vorik would be representing Engineering; since Carrey's death, the young Vulcan had become B'Elanna's number-two. Amelia Jenkins, the nightshift helmswoman, had been filling in for Tom Paris. Samantha Wildman had been doing a lot of the science departments' work. And Lt. Walter Baxter, another security officer who normally ran the lower decks, had taken over Tuvok's station.

Ayala, usually such a reserved man, looked like he felt out of place, leading this meeting. Clearing his throat, he asked the Doctor, "Update on the senior staff?"

"Still completely unaware of their true identities." The Doctor replied. "They aren't being _directly_ controlled by any outside force, as far as I can tell."

"So they aren't being controlled by holograms," Ayala asked, "like the time you took control of Seven of Nine's body?"

"No. I considered that, but my scans show that they are very much themselves. Only their memories have been altered. They haven't been possessed by aliens again."

Jenkins raised a blonde eyebrow. "Well that's a relief."

Samantha Wildman timidly corrected the Doctor. "It's a bit more than their memories that have been tampered with. They just aren't all _there_. They don't notice things that a real human in that time period would be shocked by—like Tuvok's ears, or Seven's implants or…Neelix." Sam sighed. "And their sense of time is warped. They've been in that program for a little over thirty hours, but the story has moved them through several days already. The clocks on the walls or on their wrists will skip hours, the sky will go from light to dark a lot more quickly than it should. They'll get maybe an hour or two of sleep before it's 'morning' again."

"Like they're literally trapped in an old Hollywood film," Jenkins mused.

Lt. Baxter shrugged. "At least they're getting naps in."

The Doctor's concern only increased. "If they're trapped in that program for more than a few days, at this rate they'll be sleep deprived before long. Their personas are violent enough already; adding sleep deprivation to that certainly won't help."

Around the table, faces fell.

"Do we _know_ if someone did this to them, deliberately?" Ayala asked, looking between the Doctor and Vorik. "Or is it possible that it was caused by some kind of freak accident?"

"Either is possible," the Doctor admitted. "But given this ship's history with alien intruders, and undercover agents, I have a hunch that this was no accident."

"The holodecks are sealed with encrypted codes," Vorik looked over at Ayala with an eyebrow raised skeptically. "Communication has been blocked both ways. The personas the staff was given to play are far from random; they have names and roles similar to those they hold in real life."

"But that could just be coming from their own minds," Samantha pointed out. "Naomi compared it to a dream."

"True," Vorik admitted. "But consider that, of all the possible personas the senior staff could have been given, they all happen to be violent, lonely, and negative personalities. Most of them are criminals; Lieutenants Torres and Paris are separated; Paris is on the run from the law; Kim can't find legitimate work…shall I continue?"

"It's a film noir," Baxter leaned in on the table. "The genre is _supposed_ to be pretty cynical, isn't it? Maybe that's just the program mixing with the…" he bit his lip, unsure how to finish his sentence.

"I'm no expert on this," Jenkins said. "But what if some sort of, I don't know, radiation, enhanced their negative emotions? Like they're all caught in a waking anxiety dream?"

"That's a very good theory," The Doctor replied. "They all certainly have plenty to be apprehensive about these days. But we haven't detected any radiation, or malfunctions from the ship, aside from the warp core shutting down."

"Not just the warp core," Sam looked at the Doctor, and then Ayala. "One of the replicators in the mess hall is down, and twenty people reported having problems with their replicators, sonic showers, and lights losing power. Holodeck 2 is completely useless. The power's being diverted to Holodeck-1."

Ayala nodded solemnly. "And the locked doors and encrypted codes…it doesn't seem like an accident. We'll have to keep searching 'till we get to the bottom of this. Check ship's records for anything that could indicate an intruder aboard."

Baxter suggested bluntly, but reluctantly, "You and I should also put together a list of suspects to question. I can't think of anyone offhand who I don't trust here on Voyager, but it wouldn't be the first time we've had a Cardassian spy or a homicidal psychopath turn up in our crew compliment."

Ayala took no offense. "Agreed."

The Doctor added, "Maybe someone _outside_ the holodeck is being controlled by an alien."

* * *

"Hey, Mister!"

Chuck's head hurt. His whole body hurt, actually.

"_Hey_!"

A car horn honked loudly, right in his face.

He bolted up.

Charles was in a dirt road, surrounded by autumn colored trees and bushes. The sun was up, though low in the sky. He felt like he'd recently rolled down a staircase, or a rocky hill. The road was at the bottom of a steep hill that had cars passing both ways. On the other side of him was a hideous green Buik. He touched his throbbing head, and looked up at the driver.

"God almighty Pal, I thought you were dead!"

The driver was a young white man, maybe a decade younger than Charles. The guy's hair and clothes looked almost as unkempt as his own. He wondered what the driver's excuse was. Charles black bangs were a mess over his forehead, and his coat was ripped in at least one place. His hat was long gone.

"I'm fine," Charles pushed himself up.

"Here," the younger man shifted his car into parking mode. "You need a ride?"

The guy threw the car door opened at the exact moment that Charles was sitting up. It slammed right in his tattoo, and knocked him back to the ground.

"Aw god!" the driver was out of his car and leaning over Charles, in seconds. "Aw gee, I'm sorry…"

He had one arm on Chuck's, and was looking around his damaged face. He was expressing his concern almost as if they were brothers, or maybe queer lovers. Chuck had known a guy in the army who'd—

"Tommy?" Chuck looked up sharply. "Tommy Marseilles?"

The driver's blue eyes grew wide. "Chuck?" He pushed up Charles' bangs, examining the cut. "Aw gee, look what I did to you tatt—"

Charles punched Tommy square in the nose, knocking him backwards into the gravel.

After getting to his feet, Chuck shook out his coat, staying just long enough to ensure that he hadn't knocked Tommy unconscious. Tommy blinked, holding his sleeve to his bloody pug. He glared up at Charles. His face said he knew why he'd been punched.

"Thanks Marseille, I'm not dead." Charles turned and strutted down the road. "No thanks to you."

* * *

Naomi gaped at the image on the screen. "W-wait so, so does Chakotay _know_ that Tom is Billie's baby's father?"

Icheb shook his head. "If he did, I'm sure he would have talked a little longer."

The warp core was still dead behind them. A few engineering crewmen stopped and looked over, after hearing them. While the default senior staff worked endlessly to get to the bottom of the holodeck malfunction, Icheb and Naomi had been tasked with keeping tabs on the people in the holodeck when no one else was able. Naomi's sense of fun had evaporated when Seska had killed her driver in front of Chakotay.

"_They're right in the same city_!" Naomi stared up at the screens, seemingly on the verge of panic. "Billie never _mentioned_ her fiancé's name to her friend?" she looked back at Icheb. "Charles never mentioned this old war buddies to Billie?"

From a nearby consol, Crewman Hadaad said in his Arabic accent, "I believe the term for that is 'dramatic irony.'"

Crewman Xiong added, "Or bad screenplay writers."

* * *

"You need to get some sleep Nathaniel," Kaaren pleaded.

On the sofa, Ned waved a hand at his wife. "I'm fine, Dearest. Put on another pot of coffee, will you?"

Tim looked at Ned over his glasses. "I would say you've had enough."

They had been awake the entire rest of the night, after returning from the Queen's Cabin. Tommy had taught Tim the basics of Roulette, before leaving to go run some errands for Indiana. Tim and Ned had then stayed up planning their next moves, to get closer to the bird. Kaaren had come down at around four in the morning, in a pale purple robe, saying she hadn't slept a wink and wanted to start on an elaborate breakfast. She'd made sausage, eggs, and French toast, while her husband and Tim discussed their plans, occasionally asking questions and offering suggestions.

Tim and Ned were on the couch now, plotting what they'd do at the café tonight, while Kaaren finished cleaning up the kitchen.

"A short nap won't hurt you," Kaaren suggested, stepping into the living room. "Give you a clear head to—"

"I'm fine!" Ned shouted, startling them. "Sorry. I just…want to get back to our case."

Kaaren shrugged. "I'll go to the café with you. I can keep people distracted, maybe get some information,"

"No! Kaaren, you can't imagine the kind of people who work there! You do not belong, mixing with my, with my…" Ned's face was contorted painfully. He covered it with one hand.

Tim shot up from the sofa. "Mr. Felix?"

This was a side of his partner he'd never seen. Granted, he'd only known Felix for a few days. But it was still concerning.

"Fine," Ned said in a strained voice. "I'm fine…just…medicine. Medicine, Kaaren."

Kaaren nodded, in a way that almost looked reluctant. "I'll, I'll get it."

Tim cocked his head over the sofa, as Kaaren headed into the kitchen. She wasn't rushing. She looked like she was used to this happening all the time. When she opened the cabinet, Tim caught sight of a syringe needle, before she suddenly brought the cupboard partially closed again.

"Would, would you like more coffee Mr. Excelsior?" she offered.

Tim took the hint. "I'm fine, thank you." He looked away, and picked a newspaper up from the coffee table.

Medicine. Medicine indeed.

* * *

_Amazing, _Charles thought, bringing his little red bug up to Billie's apartment complex. Not the type to think out loud, Charles just stared ahead, conversing silently with himself. _Just amazing. Tommy Marseille _and_ Seraphine. The bastard stays away for two years, and picks today to pop back up and say hello… _And Seraphine, how long had she been in California? Had she been playing games with him for the last year, since he first started his search? Had she been spying on him since the War ended?

A paranoid thought suddenly struck him, that Tommy might be working with Seraphine. No, Tommy and Seraphine hadn't known each other in France, when Charles' troop had worked with the French Resistance cell she'd infiltrated. They hadn't said two words to each other, as far as Chuck knew. But that didn't mean Seraphine still wouldn't hire him. If Charles knew Tommy Marseille, the man was a self-serving mercenary, a coward. A two-faced slime-ball, who'd cozy up to you and act like your best friend, before picking your pocket and leaving you to get hosed down by bullets while he saved himself. There wasn't much Charles would put past him.

Rapping, on the passenger seat's window.

He blinked out of his trance, and turned to the passenger seat's window. Billie was standing there, her red trench coat unbuttoned, holding her little feathered hat to her head. He unlocked the car.

"You look like hell Chuck," she said climbing into the seat next to him. "How many rounds did you go last night?"

"Too many." He shifted the car into gear. "They're on the radio, if you ever feel like listening."

"Only if I'm really bored. Or if I'm mad at you."

Despite her friendly snickering, he had a feeling she wasn't completely joking. Billie had a temper.

"You look like you haven't' changed your clothes." Her eyes moved up and down his dirty gray suit. "You haven't been up all night have you?"

"No I…I grabbed a few hours of sleep."

He almost told her about his little reunion with Tommy Marseilles, but stopped himself. Telling her about that morning would lead her to ask how he'd wound up unconscious on the road. He was going to heed Seraphine's warning, and keep the Frenchwoman's involvement a secret from Billie. Besides, complaining to Billie about his cowardly war buddy might remind her of the cowardly bastard who'd left her pregnant. Sometimes, Charles thought, if he only knew the man's name, he'd track the guy down and punch _him_ in the nose. But he was far too polite to ever ask Billie any questions about her unfortunate situation. He hadn't even asked her if she was hoping for a boy or girl. For all he knew she was planning to put the child up for adoption.

"So this school friend of yours," Charles said. "Will she be there when we go to meet Kazon?"

"No. She has Saturdays off. And she," Billie's eyes moved around the urban scenery out the windows. "She asked me not to mention her to anyone. Just in case this doesn't end diplomatically. She and Mickey Kazon are, well…"

"…I see."

So, Billie's school friend was Mickey Kazon's mol. Given Billie's fiery personality, Charles' shouldn't have been surprised that her circle of female friends would include a gangster's mistress. This really was his week for meeting "interesting" people. Hot-headed women in particular, it seemed. First his own secretary (bless her) blackmailing him; then Seraphine; and now some gangster and his girl.

Something seemed wrong, as they were driving down the palm tree-lined road, past the mansions and beach scenery. Somehow, it felt too quiet.

When they finally reached Mickey Kazon's house, they saw why. Police cars and cops were everywhere. An elderly man who looked like a butler was sitting on the mansion's porch, speaking with a cop, who was taking notes. The two front doors were opened, and cops went in and out of the house.

Billie scanned the scene. "Oh…great."

Cops. Just what Charles and Billie needed now.

_What? No, officer, I haven't been taking bribes from Italian gangsters to lose at my boxing matches…What? Trespassing? Stealing classified documents? Plotting to possibly steal a priceless artifact? Uh no, no idea what you're talking about…_

"Let's get out of here," Billie whispered.

"What've _you_ got to hide?" Charles muttered.

"I just don't think we should be—"

Too late. A cop was walking towards them, motioning for them to please exit the car. Trying to look calm, they did.

"You friends of Mr. Kazon?"

They both shook their heads.

"No," Billie's winded voice hid the gaps in her story, as she paused to decide how much to reveal. "We…had an appointment to meet with him. I was going to, possibly, buy an artifact from him."

"May I ask what exactly you were looking to buy from Mr. Kazon?"

Charles jumped in. "We didn't exactly get a chance to look yet."

"Ah." The cop nodded, taking notes. "Well you probably won't be contacted again, but just for the record, can I have your names?"

"Charles Liberty."

"Wilhelmina Torres."

The cop looked up. "_Torres_?"

"Yes," Billie repeated, now nervously. "Torres."

The cop changed his posture. "Any relation to a Mr. John Torres?"

Billie's soft voice contrasted the shock on her face. "That's my father's name."

The cop looked like he had bad news to deliver.

Charles asked so Billie wouldn't have to. "Is someone dead?"

"_Very_ dead." The cop said soberly. "Kazon was murdered this morning 'round three. Neighbors called the cops, reporting gunshots. Found him dead in his pool. 'Parently he'd been arguing with Mr. Torres over one of his artifacts the previous day, and Torres made a few threats. He's down at the county jail now, if you wanna talk to him."

Billie blinked. "Thanks."

Her calm responses frightened Charles. He knew Billie. She was letting this rage simmer on the burner, saving it for her father when she caught up with him.

Seraphine, Tommy, Billie's father, what the _hell_ was going on in San Francisco today?

"Officer," Billie wrapped her opened coat around her, "Was anyone else killed, besides Mr. Kazon?"

Charles knew she was concerned for her anonymous friend, Kazon's mistress.

"No," the cop assured her. "No one else was home, except a butler who witnessed a bit."

Billie nodded and swallowed, looking a relieved.

"I might have a few more questions for you, Mrs.—Miss—" the cop looked at Billie's stomach, and his face froze with confusion.

"_Miss_ Torres." Billie looked down, and repeated, "John Torres is my father."

The cop looked embarrassed. "Miss Torres. Sorry." He suddenly glanced at Charles, whom he'd probably assumed at the start to be Billie's husband.

"Professor Liberty's a friend," Billie added. "He's been taking care of me since my fiancé left me flat."

The cop's expression softened, and he smiled at Charles. "That's very white of you, Mr. Liberty." His eyes bulged, as he realized he'd blundered again. "I'm sorry Sir—it's been a long day," he explained irritably. "_And_ night."

"Understandable." Charles almost added something about being in the same boat, but remembered that last night was his and Seraphine's little secret.

"We don't need anything more from you Mr. Liberty. But you can stay if you'd like."

Charles thought it over. "I've got a mountain of paperwork back at the office. I may wanna get started on it before all of this becomes real to me."

The cop nodded, and turned to Billie.

Charles added, "If you wouldn't mind, please, seeing that Miss Torres makes it home safe when you're finished,"

Billie turned to Charles, looking baffled and a bit insulted. Charles gave her a long look, begging for her cooperation.

"I'll see her home safe," the cop promised.

Charles headed back for the car, checking that the newspaper clipping was still in his coat's breast pocket.

* * *

Billie's short heels clopped loudly against the tiled floor of the jailhouse. She strode past the cells, staring straight ahead. One prisoner lifted his tattered hat and said, "Morning ma'am." Another jeered, "Hey sugar, how 'bout a kiss!" A third pointed at her belly and shouted, "That one mine? That one mine?" Billie ignored them. She continued down the hall, dodging a flying piece of mashed potato that a prisoner flicked her way.

Daddy stood up as she approached, staring at her with his mouth hanging opened like a codfish. If she hadn't known better, she'd think he'd have been surprised to see her. He looked slightly worse than she remembered him from her childhood, unshaven and in wrinkled dirty clothes. He wore the same battered cap he'd had back in the Depression. His dark hair had some new flecks of gray in it, and his worn coat had some new patches.

"_Billie_?" her father stuck his head through the bars. "What are you doing h—"

She slapped him so hard that his head clobbered against one of the bars.

* * *

**A/N: Fret not, I am not turning this into a "slash" story. Tom and Chuck's relationship will be left about as ambiguous as it is on the actual show. (Which is pretty damned ambiguous. What the hell WAS going on between those two, anyway?) **

**Crewman at the briefing, in the first scene: Ayala is one of Tuvok's regular security guards. He's a black-haired guy in a gold uniform; as a Maquis, he wears an odd hockey-like vest. His first name is never given onscreen (far as I know). I named him Miguel, because I'm tired of everyone on Voyager having U.S. sounding names. Jenkins appeared as a night-shift pilot in the episode "Warhead." She looks like an Amelia to me. Walter Baxter is in a few episodes of Seasons 1 and 2 ("Twisted" is one). **

**Pointless trivia: Tom's name, Marseille, ties in both "Voyager" and film noir. In the "Voyager" episode "Author, Author," the Doctor bases a character on Tom, named Lt. Marseille. There is also a well-known (among noir fans) film from the '40s called "Passage to Marseille" (starring Humphrey Bogart, and most of the male leads from "Casablanca."**


	6. Starving Singer

**A/N: Just so we're all clear, this story has some deliberately old-fashioned "values." I am not against homosexuality, independent women, or interracial friendships; I'm simply writing the way a lot of people in the 1940s unfortunately thought.**

* * *

John Torres' mouth fell opened, and he rubbed his face where Billie had slapped him.

"_You son of a bitch_!" Billie's shout echoed through the jailhouse, drawing the attention of some other inmates. "Are there _no_ depths you won't sink to?"

John gripped the bars pleadingly. "Billie, princess, it wasn't me."

"_It…wasn't…you_. Wasn't you who what, killed Mickey Kazon? Or who walked out on us and took all the money, all the valuables, down to the last silver spoon? Oh don't worry, the soup kitchens provided silverware, usually."

"I was gonna come back!" John stammered.

Billie laughed bitterly. "Right! You were gonna come back. You were in such a hurry to get out and get back, you forgot to tell Mama where you were headed. Didn't even leave a note."

"I thought I was gonna make a big break, I was gonna find work in New York and make it big, get rich, and prove to your mother that I wasn't such a useless husb—"

"But you couldn't take us with you? We'd just slow you down?" Billie snorted. "You were gonna come back. Sure took you a while."

John looked down. His shame suddenly turned into excitement. "Oh Billie! You're, you're expecting!"

She slapped him again, if possible, harder.

"I wanted that bird for my baby! _Your_ grandchild! What did _you_ want it for again, to prove to Mama that you weren't a worthless husband? Was _that_ worth murdering a man in his home for, Daddy?"

"I _told_ you I didn't do it! I never even saw Kazon more than once!"

"I know. He was shot in the _back_." She flexed her fists opened and closed. "Three times."

John's mouth quivered opened and closed. "I-I-I don't even _have_ a gun!"

"That's _not_ what an entire bar full of people heard you telling Kazon the day before, when you were arguing with him over that statue."

"Aw, I was, I was drunk, I was out of my mind—"

"When you killed him?"

"I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE!"

Her father's distressed face suddenly blurred, and Billie realized she was about to shed some tears.

"How can I believe anything you say Daddy." She let a couple tears fall. "You lost my trust when I was ten years old."

She turned back down the way she'd come, briskly but at a much slower pace than when she'd entered. She suddenly remembered that she was going to ask Daddy if he'd actually found the bird, but she was now certain he didn't. And either way, she'd said it seconds ago; she couldn't trust anything he said. She stormed out the building, wondering why in the world she'd come in the first place.

* * *

At first, Charles had no idea how he was going to track down a man he'd never met, in a city as big as Los Angeles. But rereading the news clipping, he realized he had several advantages. First off, the guy's weird ears and eyebrows. Charles hadn't seen such features on anyone in his life, and assumed they'd stand out in a crowd. On top of that, the guy was from New York. That meant there was a good chance that he was only here in L.A. temporarily, and might've been spotted at one of the subway stations. On the other hand, that news clipping was a couple years old, so maybe Timothy Excelsior had been living in Los Angeles a while. Even if he was only visiting, there was no reason to assume he'd come directly to California through L.A.

Charles returned to his office and made a few phone calls. He phoned all of the major train stations in L.A., pretending to be a concerned friend, asking of someone of Tim Excelsior's name or description had been there. After getting nothing, he decided to try some of the other big California cities, starting with San Francisco. There, finally, he got a lead, saying that Excelsior had stepped off the train a couple of weeks ago.

Chuck called some hotels near the train station, and found Excelsior had checked into one of them for a few days, before leaving, in the company of a white friend—the word "white" being used rather loosely here. According to the girl working behind the desk, Excelsior's friend had spots like a giraffe's, and hair like a rooster's. "I didn't wanna ask, since I figured he might've been leper," she said in a hushed voice. She'd described the car they'd left in, and the direction in which they'd gone, which was in the direction of Los Angeles. Following a hunch that Giraffe Man and Excelsior were working together, Chuck decided to ask the L.A. hotels he phoned for both men. But he didn't get anywhere. They might've been staying at a friend's house, rather than a hotel.

A little after noon, he was starting to consider giving up. He hadn't eaten, and hadn't changed since the night before. A few more phone calls, then he'd call it a quits for now. Shrugging out of his filthy suit jacket, he flipped the phone book back opened, found another hotel, and called them up.

A young man answered. "Sandrine's Hotel, thank you for calling, how can I help you?"

Charles didn't bother feigning concern, instead letting his genuine fatigue do the "acting" for him. "Hello, I'm trying to locate a friend. He was supposed to meet me in Los Angeles yesterday, and never showed. Timothy Excelsior?"

The boy searched the records, and came up with nothing. "…Is it possible he checked in under a different name?"

"It's possible, though I've no idea which name he'd use. He's got uh," Charles rubbed his temple. He was so sick of repeating this absurd story. "Excuse me son, I'm not drunk. But my friend has pointed ears, and unusual eyebrows…"

"Uuuuh, If he was here, he had those ears hidden. I didn't see nothing like that."

Charles looked down, putting a hand on his hip. "He might not've been alone. He…might be with another man, a white fellow with…" he sighed. "…spots on his face?"

The boy's voice changed. "Brown spots? And big blonde mutton chops?"

Charles almost dropped the phone. "You've seen him?"

"Yeah, just this morning. 'Round ten. He was walking down the street."

"Which way were they going?"

"West, I think. Went past the bank of that helps…"

After getting some more details, Charles ran home to shower and change into some clean clothes. (He'd used his office for the phone calls, since it was the only place he _had_ a phone.) He shook out his wrinkled trench coat as well as he could, and threw it back on, buttoning and tying it shut. He grabbed an old fedora (the only spare hat he had), got into his car, and then headed down to downtown L.A., to the street outside Sandrine's Hotel. He parked the car at a meter, and then spent a while asking around different shops, for anyone who'd seen his "friend."

When he was asking in person, Charles found he was getting less friendly answers. People he asked seemed hesitant, and gave him odd looks. He soon realized how suspicious he must seem; in a wrinkled coat, with a hat that didn't match, and an odd tattoo under visible fighting injuries. His appearance probably screamed "gagster." The fact that he was asking around for a white man and a Negro, while he himself was neither, probably made his story of being a concerned friend seem even less likely. By the time Charles reached the candy shop, he had come up with a new story that he hoped would cover his suspicious appearance.

"…Hi there. I'm looking for an old friend." Charles dropped his voice into a whisper. "On behalf of a suspicious wife."

The coffee shop owner's expression changed, and he immediately became more sympathetic. Leaning over the counter, the man whispered, "You're some kind of hired detective?"

"When I can get hired. Work's been slow, as you can probably tell." He gestured to his wrinkled coat. "I pull in extra dough in the ring on weekends. Took quite a beating last night."

"Ah!" the old man leaned back, looking at Charles' injuries in a new light. "Course, course. Times been tough all around, ain't they." He dropped back into a whisper. "So the fellow you're looking for, what's he look like? What's his mistress look like?"

"The fellow's Colored. Tall, long face, little mustache like Clark Gabel had in _Gone With the Wind_. Glasses. And his ears are a bit unusual. They're pointed."

The man shook his head. "Most everyone come in here's been wearing hats. What about the girl he's two-timing with?"

Charles looked down, hands in his coat pockets. He looked back up, and whispered, "His wife tells me her husband's been spending a lot of time with a male 'friend.' She's afraid the fellow might be putting 'unnatural thoughts' in her husband's head. Fact that he's an old white guy made her even more depressed—no offense."

The old man's jaw dropped, and he pointed at Charles. "I, I seen a Colored man and a white man walk by, talking like best buddies. The white fellow had some terrible skin disease. He looked like a tropical fish!"

"I feel like John Wayne now, but: which way did they go?"

The man pointed. "I think they said something about Leola's Coffee Shop…"

* * *

Tim and Ned's first shift at the Queen's Cabin would not start until that evening. In the meantime, they decided to observe the club from across the street. Ned talked the owner of a coffee shop called Leola's into letting them set up an early Christmas display, pretending he and Tim were members of a charity group. The owner of the shop eagerly agreed, knowing that they would attract many passing families and children to grab lunch or a snack there.

Ned sat in a little chair by a large window, waving to passersby. He was dressed in a red Santa Suit and hat, with a large cotton beard tied around his chin. He was easily the strangest Chris Cringle anyone in on the street had seen. Never mind the fact that November was still finishing up, and there was hardly even any snow on the ground. Tim stood in a green tunic and boots, with a large red belt and white-and-red stripped stockings. He wore a long green hat that ended in a pompom, his pointed ears on full display. Tim waved his charity bell back and forth, gazing over the confused pedestrians, watching the club across the street.

"Tim!" Ned hissed. "Smile once in a while, won't you? You're frightening the children."

"_I_…am frightening the children?"

Outside the window, a little girl with blonde pigtails stared at Ned, her mouth tightly shut and her eyes wide and unmoving, until her mother scooped her up and scolded, "Don't stare, Milly."

"Oh!" Ned exclaimed happily, when an Asian woman entered the shop with her enthused son. "Ho, ho, ho! Meeerry early Christmas!"

As the boy rushed into Santa's lap, Tim considered that maybe the interracial duo would be good for business after all. A melting pot of families had been stopping by to see "Santa" and his "elf." The bigger the crowd, the better; it would make him and Ned seem less suspicious to anyone from Kitty's club who might notice them across the street.

* * *

"Now what's going on out there?" Kitty Indiana muttered, peering out her café's window with folded arms.

Her new roulette runner and chef were across the street, doing some kind of early Christmas display for the kids. Sweet of them, but a little too conspicuous. Kitty wasn't certain how comfortable she was with two of her workers drawing so much attention to themselves, right outside her club.

"Those two men," Annie Henson came up behind Kitty. "I told you, Kitty, what Harry said. Those two are watching us."

"And well they should be," Kitty admitted. "They know this is a dangerous place to work, and that gambling isn't legal in California. They might just be doing a background check on their new host before committing to a job that might get them killed." Her voice dropped to a lower, more cynical note. "On the other hand, they might be cops, doing a sting on us."

"They might _also_ be friends of Mickey Kazon. Have you turned on the news today, Kitty?"

Kitty turned to look at her friend. Annie's eyes were hard and unblinking.

"Yes. I did." Kitty turned back to the window. "But Kazon was killed around three this morning, they said. These two were hired long before that. They weren't here for revenge."

"But they may be now."

Kitty turned back to her singer. Annie was in casual daytime clothes. Well, "casual" for Annie; she always dressed a tad too fancy. She wore a plain white blouse with a long black skirt, a bright red sash tied around her waist. A chunk of her gold hair was rolled over her forehead, the rest sitting around her shoulders. She looked like she wouldn't need to change, to go out for a little errand.

"Tell you what Annie," Kitty said softly. "How would you like to pick up a few extra hours before your shift tonight, and do a little detective work for me?"

Annie raised her one good eyebrow. "Perhaps I could use a cup of coffee before work tonight."

* * *

Annie fetched her earthy-brown coat and matching women's fedora. She knew that Mr. Excelsior and Mr. Felix had seen her and Indiana watching them. Rather than try to deny it, she decided to work it into her story.

When she stepped into the coffee house, she smiled at them. "Mr. Excelsior, Mr. Felix. Nice costumes!"

Felix waved to her, and Excelsior nodded with a small smile. The child on Felix's lap stared up at him, perplexed by his spots.

"Miss Indiana says she wants a limousine for Christmas." Annie joked.

"I'll see what I can do!" Felix turned back to the child on his lap. "Now, what do you want for Christmas little boy?"

As Annie went to the counter to order some coffee and a bagel, the doorbell jingled again, with more new customers: a Colored woman with two children, coming to see Santa, and a tall dark man in a battered coat. He politely held the door for the woman and kids, before strolling over to the counter. He dipped his hat to Annie, but his eyes went over to Santa and the elf.

Annie's coffee and bagel arrived; she thanked the barista, and left to find herself a table. She picked a little one in a ways from the Christmas display, but close enough that she could observe what Excelsior and Felix were up to. While she unbuttoned her coat, she noticed the new man watching Excelsior and Felix, as he ordered his lunch.

He seemed to be looking at Excelsior and Felix, while trying not to _look_ like he was looking. This shouldn't have seemed odd; half the other people in the restaurant were doing the same thing. No one had ever seen such a strange looking Santa, or an "elf" with such convincing pointed ears. But something about this man's appearance sent up red flags. He had a large build, and visible old injuries on his face. He was dark, possibly Italian. She had no idea what the odd tattoo over his eye was supposed to be, so she ignored it for now. He could easily have been a gangster, and his interest in Excelsior and Ned was making her nervous. An ally of theirs, plotting against Miss Indiana, perhaps?

The man got his food and turned around, before Annie had time to look away. He smiled briefly, before she turned back down to her coffee. Did he know who she was? Or had he simply mistaken her stares for a sign of affection? Great, now he was on his way to her table.

"This seat taken?"

His soft voice startled her. She'd been expecting something quite different.

Annie was terrified for many reasons at once, ranging from the possibility that he was an enemy gangster, to the fact that he was quite handsome and she was shy.

She shook her head. "Please."

He pulled out the chair across from her, and set his hat down on the table. His hair was jet black, parted at the side, with streaks of silver by his ears. His eyes were so dark brown, you couldn't see where the irises ended and the pupils began. They were deep set, under angular silver eyebrows, that made him look "wolfish." Seeing his features up close, she wasn't so certain that he was Italian. Mexican, maybe? Whatever he was, they didn't make them like that, back where Annie had grown up. And then that odd tattoo—

"Unusual looking Santa," he said, glancing back at Ned Felix.

Annie nodded. "Very convincing ears, on that elf."

He nodded, sipping some coffee. As he did, she saw his eyes glance, just for a split second, on her ring finger. He didn't have a wedding band either. Her face was growing hot. But this was a good thing. Her blushing would make him think she was only interested in flirting. Maybe even get him to tell her a bit about why he was here.

"I don't think I've seen you around here often." Annie didn't smile. Flirting or not, she didn't care for the giggling schoolgirl routine.

He shook his head. "I'm not. I'm new around here." He reached into the pocket of his coat, which he hadn't taken off. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Actually, I do. I'm a singer. If we were outside I wouldn't mind so much, but I'd just as soon not have it blowing in my face."

He took his hand away from his pocket. "I hear it's a filthy habit anyway." His eyes were moving around the metallic disfigurements on her face. He caught himself, and changed the subject. "You a regular at this place?"

God, his voice was really doing things to her. Stirring her coffee, Annie said, "S'pose I am. I work at the café across the street, the Queen's Cabin."

He turned to the restaurant's door and front walls, which was essentially one long window. There he went, looking at Santa and the elf again. With his face at this angle, she was given a full view of that tattoo.

"Coffee here's better than where you work?" he asked casually, finally looking back at her.

"Infinitely." Annie sipped her coffee. "Pardon me. But is that stamp on your forehead supposed to mean something? Or are you just one of those abstract-artist types?"

It would certainly explain his un-kept wardrobe.

He chuckled and said, "It's a…family heirloom of sorts."

If she could get him talking about himself, she'd be free to sit in the café for a while longer, observing Excelsior and Felix, and their possible ally himself. That was what Annie told herself, anyway.

Almost hesitantly, the man said, "I'm a Nakuna."

Annie had no clue what this meant, so she said simply, "God bless you."

Ignoring the insult, he said, "It's a…nationality. From south of California, parts of Mexico."

Annie instantly regretted her first response. Very quietly, she said, "You're an Indian."

He nodded, and took another sip of his coffee.

She considered asking him what all the secrecy was for, if he was willing to proudly display his heritage with that tattoo. But then again, it might not have been a simple choice. His tribe may've expected, even required it. Annie knew very little about the American Indians. Actually, she knew very little about any of the non-white groups here in America.

His eyes were now stuck on the hand she stirred her coffee with, the one covered it glossy metallic veins.

"Borges' Disease." She said suddenly, making him look up at her. "I was diagnosed when I was six. It's not contagious. Not very pretty either."

After a moment he said, "That's a matter of opinion."

Annie chewed her bagel silently, then pushed out of her seat. The way he looked at her almost hurt. "I'll be back in a minute," she assured him. "I need to use the washroom."

She told herself she was going to fix her makeup, but once she reached the bathroom mirror, she saw that it was already flawless. She stood there for several long moments, staring at her reflection. Annie was immodestly aware of her beauty. Not only was her figure flawless and buxom, and her face free of acne or blemishes, she even had the Hollywood ideal of gold hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. She could be a star, if not for…well, a few things. Those marks on her face, those ugly metal blotches, they were truly hideous. She was never certain of men swarmed to her because the rest of her beauty compensated, or because they found her disfigurements "unique" and endearing, or because they felt sorry for her. Even if she'd looked completely normal, she'd never be able to have a serious relationship, even a platonic one, outside of her friendship had with Kitty Indiana. Friendships and dates both had to stop just short of getting to know each others' pasts.

Annie almost jumped, when the stall door behind her opened. An older woman stepped out and strode over to the sink beside hers. After washing her hands, the woman turned to leave. But just as she was opening the door, she stopped, looked back at Annie, and let it fall closed again.

"Anita?" the woman's voice was low and silky. "Anita Heinritz?"

_Clunk_.

Annie had dropped her little purse. She stood there, numbly, as the woman clopped over to her on spike heels. She picked up Annie's purse and handed it back to her. Annie took it without meeting her eye.

"Anita?" the woman stared at her, with large, pale green eyes.

She wasn't any taller than Annie, but she carried herself with an authority that intimidated her. She was unnaturally pale, with thin silver hair yanked up in a tight, tiny bun. Her large dark eyes were surrounded by almost mockingly dollish makeup, her tiny lips painted bright red. She had no eyebrows, instead having drawn thin curved lines high over her eyes, a style at least ten years out of date. Her long black dress, almost skintight, was spangled with leafy silver designs. She clung to a silver fox skin over one shoulder. Annie knew this woman, knew her better than her own parents in fact. But she refused to be reconnected with her.

Annie shook her head. "You have me mistaken for someone else."

Annie tried to shove past her, but the woman blocked her, grabbing her arm.

"Anita, darling!" the woman purred. "I know it's you, don't try to tell me it's not! It's me, Bruna Rike. You know who I am, I practically raised you."

"Take your hand off me." Annie struggled, but Bruna Rike's grip was inhumanly strong.

"Anita, I love what you've done with your hair!" Bruna cupped some of Annie's gold locks. "You look so…_Aryan_."

Almost on reflex, Annie's normal hand clawed Bruna's cheek, with sharp long nails. Bruna released her, and moved her hand to feel the small, bleeding cuts on her cheek.

Seething, Annie warned, "If you know what's good for you Frau Rike, you'll make sure I never see you again."

She shoved Bruna against the sink, and moved to the door. She stopped, when she felt cold metal on the back of her neck.

"Into the stall, Anita. I want to talk."

Annie allowed herself to be guided into the first stall. Bruna pulled the door shut and locked it, and kept her pistol pointed at Annie.

"I don't just know _your_ name, Anita Heinritz." Bruna wore that insufferable smile, and spoke in that low, almost seductive voice. "I know your employer, Kathryn O'Hara, better known as Kitty Indiana. I know she hosts illegal gambling in her club's basement, and that she's made quite a name for herself among the criminal underworld of California. I also know that she possesses an almost priceless ancient artifact, a silver statue of a bird. What am I holding this gun for? I don't need bullets to threaten you." Bruna opened her large purse and let the gun fall inside. "You're going to do me a favorite Anita, and if you don't I'll come to the police about your past political affiliations, and Kitty's current ones."

"And then _I_ will tell the police who _taught_ those 'affiliations' to me, Nazi." Annie said coldly. "You clearly didn't think your blackmail through very thoroughly, did you."

"Actually I did. You see Annie, you have no proof that I had anything to do with Hitler. But _I_ have plenty of documents from my beloved students in Hitler's Youth. Here's a sample." From her large purse, Bruna pulled a photograph of Annie, in her teens, standing among a group of other young Nazis, proudly sporting their uniforms and swastika armbands, lifting their arms to Hitler. "And something a little more recent…"

Into Annie's shaking hand, she placed a newer looking photo, of the gambling room down in the basement of the Queen's Cabin, with bar patrons laughing and scowling at each other around the roulette wheel.

"Oh," Bruna gasped with mock concern. "I wonder what that redskin thinks of the Nazis. He's about the right age to've served, strikes me as ex military. He probably _fought_ Nazis."

Annie swayed slightly, but kept her face hard. "He probably _killed_ Nazis. Hitler is dead and the War is over. What do you hope to accomplish?"

"Some funds for our efforts." Bruna said. "We're re-patriotizing South America as we speak."

Annie didn't think "re-patriotizing" was a word, but that wasn't relevant at the moment.

"I don't have any money." Annie said.

Bruna looked at Annie's outfit. "Nice wardrobe, for a starving singer. You know what I want, Anita. Get me that bird. When I have the statue I'll be out of the country, you'll never see or hear from me again. And no one need know anything about what you were doing before 1945, or what kind of a business your friend Kitty runs."

Annie's jaw clenched. "I don't know where Indiana keeps the statue."

"Find out. You have three days." Bruna unlocked the door and gently eased it opened.

Their eyes stayed locked, as Annie slowly moved out of the stall, then burst out of the women's room.

The man, whose name she didn't even know, looked up at her with concern as she clopped back to the table.

"Is everything alright?"

"No. I'm ill." Annie grabbed her coat from her chair and threw it on, not bothering to button it.

"You still have half your bagel," he pointed out.

"You can have it." She donned her hat and took off, before he could ask anything more.

Only when she was crossing the street did Annie realize that she'd completely neglected to ask Bruna Rike how the hell she knew about the bird, Kitty's business, and the fact that the dark man was an Indian.

* * *

**A/N: The show never told us the name of Chakotay's tribe, so I did what the "Star Trek" writers did, and just made crap up. **


	7. No Coincidence

**A/N: An anonymous reader pointed out a possible way for Icheb to get in touch with Seven of Nine. I thought the person had a good point, so I'll address it in this chapter. Sadly, I cannot respond to reviews left by people who don't have accounts on the website, so I can only hope they get the message here. **

**Also, this story is deliberately filled with homage's to movies made in, or about, the 1930s and '40s. So if you think you've seen a line or a gag somewhere before, you probably have.**

* * *

The idea had come to Icheb in a dream, while he was regenerating. Upon waking up, he was astounded that he hadn't thought of it earlier. He hurried down to sickbay, hoping the Doctor wouldn't be too busy to hear him out. When Icheb entered, the Doctor was working at a consol, with Ensign Vorik. Both looked up, cutting off their conversation. Icheb's expression was as flat as always, but his panting gave away his urgency.

"Forgive my intrusion," Icheb said, approaching them. "But I've just thought of a possible way to make contact with Seven in the holodeck."

Vorik, being a Vulcan, betrayed no reaction to this news. But the Doctor's lack of surprise really threw Icheb off. The hologram looked like he already thought Icheb's idea would fail.

"A neural interface," Icheb said. "You have Seven's code, Doctor. If I can form a mental link with her, I may be able to 'awaken' her, for lack of a better word," he trailed off, seeing the Doctor's expression.

"Lt. Vorik and I already discussed utilizing your Borg physiology, Icheb. We ran into several problems. For starters, there's the simple matter of the dampening field around the holodeck. We've tried every form of communication we could think of—"

"Except the interface," Icheb pointed out.

"—except the interface, and nothing could get through to them. From the looks of it, the dampening field would likely harm you if you tried it, maybe even leave you with brain damage. And second of all, you may not even be _capable_ of a full neural interface anymore, without a cortical node."

Not long ago, Icheb had donated his cortical node to Seven of Nine, to save her life. Since Icheb himself had never become a full Borg drone, his body had been able to adapt without it.

Vorik added, "If an interface were successful, the outcome would be unpredictable. It may worsen Seven's mental state."

Icheb looked at the Vulcan. "We certainly wouldn't want to be in a situation that's unpredictable, would we."

The Doctor looked mildly impressed by Icheb's sarcasm. The young former drone had observed the art in the Doctor, Lt. Torres, Naomi, and even Seven, and had been waiting for an opportunity to utilize it.

"If we could get around the dampening field," Icheb asked the Doctor, "Would a _partial_ neural interface be possible?"

The Doctor made a face. "It's _possible_. But I'm not sure how much you'd be able to job her memory, with such a weak communication. Seven's already aware of _parts_ of her real life, and the brainwashing is simply working around it."

"I could remind her of the Borg, space anomalies we've encountered, things that couldn't be explained in that historical program."

Vorik raised an eyebrow at the Doctor, as if he liked the idea.

The Doctor sighed. "I'll give it some thought Icheb. But before we even cross that bridge, we have to find a way around the dampening field."

* * *

Kitty Indiana stood at the end of a long wooden dock, watching the sky turn a dark sapphire blue over the Pacific Ocean. It was a chilly evening, but she was plenty warm in her fur-lined coat. Beneath her wide-brimmed hat, her hair was pulled up into the bunch of curls she'd worn the day she'd met her driver, Tommy Chicago, in person. Along with it, she had the same red, lacy eye-patch, to match the outfit she wore under the coat. She took out her cigarette and exhaled, watching the smoke coil around in the air.

The wood creaked behind her, but she didn't turn around. She kept one gloved hand on the dock's railing, the other fiddling her cigarette.

His low voice still held his subtle Irish accent. "Nice place for a rendezvous, Kitty."

Kitty allowed herself a smile. "I figured you'd like it, Mayhew."

He came up next to her, removing his bowler hat. In all that those years, Mayhew hadn't seemed to age a day. He still looked a few years older than Kitty, with a full head of perfectly combed gray hair. Under his opened coat, she could see he still dressed simply, sporting a white shirt and gray vest. The closest thing to color on him was a dowdy bowtie the hue of dried blood. Mayhew Sullivan was a simple, down-to-Earth man, and Kitty loved him for it. Loved him for it, and suffered for it.

"The businesswoman's life seems to suit you." Mayhew admitted. "The more I think of it, the harder I have, picturing you quitting your café to settle down on a farm."

"I never _did_ like messing around in the dirt." Kitty admitted. "But I've had my fun, Mayhew. I think I just might be ready to settle down."

"You've been saying that for neigh ten years, Kitty."

Kitty's eyebrows turned up. Almost whispering, she said, "What could I do, Mayhew? If I abandoned that club, all of those boys and girls would've been out of work."

"Lots of people were out of work, Kitty. They made it through."

"No, Mayhew, they didn't. What about your own uncle, who jumped out of a skyscraper when he lost his life's savings, the day after Black Tuesday?" she looked over the darkening ocean. "All those people I collected over the years—runaway gangsters, orphans, widows, Colored people, no one else would hire them. And they're good people Mayhew, good workers. A lot of them would be street puppeteers if I didn't stand by them."

"You're heart's too big, Kitty. Seems you've got room for everyone in it but me. Once, long ago, I proposed to you. Now you've kept me waiting for over a decade. I can't hold out much longer. And neither can Clara."

Kitty blinked, still staring out at the ocean. "The girl back in Ireland."

"Aye." Mayhew looked down, fiddling his bowler hat. "She's getting close on to thirty. She knows about you and me, Kitty. If I chose you, she won't hold any grudges. She wants me to be happy. But, she also wants a husband, before…before mother nature tells her time's up."

Kitty felt his eyes on her.

"Maybe you're willing to wait forever Kitty, but Clara and I, we ain't."

"I've just made a break, Mayhew." Kitty turned to face her former fiancé. "I've gotten a hold of a very valuable artifact. In a few days, I'll be selling it for more money than anyone at my café's made in all the time we've worked there. And then," she waved her cigarette with a smile. "Aidyo, Los Angeles!"

Mayhew's face brightened. "You're saying you're finally hanging it all up?"

"I'll have enough money to give each of my best workers enough to be set for at least a few years, until they can make a new start. And there'll be plenty for our farm—if you'll have me."

"Kitty," he put his arms around her. "I really hope you mean it this time."

* * *

Tim Excelsior checked his watch. "It's getting close to five, Mr. Felix. We'd best close up shop." He removed his green elf hat, and dropped his charity bell into it.

Felix was about to take one last child onto his lap, before suddenly pointing out the window. "There he is again!"

The dark man with the tattoo strolled by, lighting up a cigarette.

"He was sitting here eating lunch for over an hour, and he's passed us maybe five times since then!" Ned squinted, as the man walked out of sight. "He's some kind of Italian or something."

"Working for Miss Indiana, perhaps?" Tim whispered. "He was speaking with her singer earlier. He arrived around the same time she did, in fact."

"I don't trust him." Felix said.

The little boy standing by Felix cleared his throat.

Dipping back into his jolly Santa voice, Felix laughed, "Oh, all right! One more, one more."

The boy's mother looked as much in a hurry for her and her son to leave as Felix and Tim were. "Go on Ralphie, tell Santa what you want."

The boy was struck speechless, staring up at Felix's odd face.

"Little boy," Felix urged, "What do you want for Christmas?"

Tattoo Man was across the street now, taking a seat on a bench. He wasn't looking directly at them, but he was doing that pathetic scan around the scene, that people did when they were trying to catch a glimpse of you without looking like they were staring. Tim agreed with Felix; he did not trust this fellow one bit.

Desperately, Felix suggested to the child, "How about a nice, eh, football!"

Slowly, the boy nodded, half in a daze, and his mother pulled him off Santa's lap.

"So," Tim whispered as he and Felix made their way towards the door, "What we need to find out tonight is, where is Indiana keeping the bird, and whether or not Tattoo Boy is an ally of hers, ours, or some third par—"

"_Wait_!" the little boy hollered, just before they exited the coffee shop.

Grabbing Santa's coat, the boy rambled at the speed of lightning, "I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!"

Tim and Felix looked at each other, and then back at the child.

Tim didn't bother reverting to his cheerful elf voice, and instead, replied in his usual deadpan manner, "You'll shoot your eye out kid."

As they left the dumbstruck boy and his laughing mother behind in the restaurant, Felix called over his shoulder, "Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!"

While they were crossing the street, their stalker shifted and took another drag from his joint, determinately looking ahead. He was a big guy, but Tim was confident he could take him in a fight—for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on.

They hurried into the café and made to the restroom, to change into their work uniforms. Ned emerged in simple pants and shirt, covered by an apron, and headed for the kitchen. Tim adjusted the top of his gold suit, and headed downstairs to the basement, where the not-quite-legal gambling took place.

The basement was decorated much like the ground floor, with a design that called back to the speakeasies of the Roaring Twenties. A radio was on, playing some news updates. It was early yet, and the room looked to be empty. The gambling room would open up for business in about twenty minutes. As Tim finished descending the stairs and strode into the room, someone in the corner moved, making him jump. It was Tommy Chicago. The driver was sitting in a little chair near a decorative mirror, where the little red radio sat on a shelf underneath. Chicago was actually dressed halfway decently this time, wearing a red pinstriped suit made from some light, baggy material.

"Tim!" Tommy gasped, then laughed. "I think you took two years off my life!"

Tim watched, unmoved, as Tommy quickly stashed a half-empty bottle of whiskey inside his large suit. "My apologies Mr. Chicago. I didn't realize anyone was down here yet."

Tommy shook his head. "It's fine. So, Ned's got the kitchen, you have the roulette room, and I'll take the main floor."

Tim nodded. "Don't make it look obvious that you're looking for information on the bird."

"Hey, relax. I'm a natural." Tommy assured him.

Tim approached the mirror Tommy sat near, and checked behind it. He explained to Tommy, "I'm searching for any hidden safes that Indiana might not have informed you about."

Tommy shrugged. "I've already checked this place twice over, but go ahead." He sat lazily in his chair, watching Tim move around the room, checking all the mirrors and paintings. "So, who's watching Kaaren tonight?"

"Ned's arranged for some neighbors to look after her." Tim said. "Though I'm certain she's capable of keeping herself safe. From what he's told me about her, she's seen worse times."

Tim felt a sense of protectiveness for the young woman, for reasons he wasn't certain of. She reminded him of someone he'd once known, had once looked after. It was almost driving him crazy that he couldn't remember who it was.

Tommy hauled himself up from his chair and stretched. Along with his baggy suit, he wore Mickey Mouse necktie. He grabbed his signature fedora off the counter next to the radio, adjusted the joker card stuck in the brim, and put it on.

"Is that a zoot suit?" Tim asked curiously.

"Yeah." Tommy said. "What of it?"

Zoot suits were popular among youths of African American and Hispanic descent. Seeing it on a skinny white boy was…strange. Tim made a face that might replace a shrug, and continued checking the room.

"Another question Chicago," Tim said, glancing under the table. "Does Kitty Indiana have any friends or enemies with facial art?"

Tommy, who'd been sneaking another swig from his bottle, stopped and made a face. He sloshed the booze in his mouth a second before swallowing and replying. "Big Indian fellow, tattoo over his eye?" Tommy placed three fingers over his forehead, mimicking the tattoo.

"Yes." Tim said. "He seemed to be spying on Felix and me." Tim briefly summed up his and Ned's encounter with the man, over at the restaurant.

"I know that guy. His name's Charles Liberty." Tommy confirmed. "We served in the same troop in the War. I just ran into him earlier today. He _hates_ me. I've got no idea what he'd want from you or Ned, though. Maybe he just fancies you," Tommy laughed.

Uncertain whether Tommy was joking or not, Tim said, "He seemed to 'fancy' Miss Indiana's singer, Annie Hanson. He—"

The radio made Tim stop.

"…_Mickey Kazon, suspected to have ties with the Mafia, was found dead in his home this morning…_"

Tim and Tommy both watched the radio.

"You, uh, heard about that murder this morning?" Tommy asked Tim.

"Yes." Tim noted Tommy's attempt to look "cool." "Did you know him?"

Tommy shook his head. "Me, no. I never met him, directly."

Tim understood the subtext. He shouldn't be surprised, he realized, that Mickey Kazon would have come in contact with Kitty Indiana's gang. Tommy had probably run across some of Kazon's underlings.

"This murder doesn't involve us," Tim asked Tommy, "Does it?"

Tommy ran a hand through is hair. "I…don't _think_ so…I _hope_ not…this is kind of a messy business, so it's sometimes hard to…" he stopped, to listen to the rest of the report.

"_One suspect is already behind bars. John Torres, age 49, allegedly had an argument with Kazon the night before, and threatened to…_"

Tommy's eyes widened slightly.

"Someone you know?" Tim asked.

Tommy gave his head a tiny shake. "Don't think so. It's a common enough last name."

"…_may now be a second suspect, who witnesses described as a short man with gray hair, and unusually large eyes_."

Now it was Tim's turn to freeze.

"_Witnesses say he wore a long coat and a stripped scarf. One witness said that the man was at the bar with Kazon, along with Torres, but did not interact with Torres. The witness described the man as 'staring at Kazon, like he hated him,' and left the bar only minutes after Kazon left. Anyone who sees this man is urged to contact the police…_"

Tim stared at the radio, as the report ended, and switched to a jazzy tune.

"Tim?" Tommy looked at the detective. "Someone _you_ know in that report?"

Tim thought it over. "Not likely…"

That was impossible. Or at least so improbable, it wasn't an idea even worth entertaining.

And yet, every bit of that description…

"Mr. Excelsior! Mr. Chicago."

Tim and Tommy both turned at the sound of Indiana's voice.

"Miss Indiana!" Tim flashed a toothy smile. "It's good to see you."

The café owner was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at them. She wore a long red gown, with the padded shoulders and blouse-like sleeves that were in fashion now. The gold buttons and white lacy collar reminded Tim of the pirate queen on the café's sign, probably a deliberate reference. Her matching eye-patch gave the whole outfit a humorous touch.

"You about ready to set up shop, Mr. Excelsior?" Indiana asked.

Tim nodded. "Indeed."

"Good. I think tonight's gonna be busy." She looked at Tommy. "You gonna try to make some money tonight, Chicago?"

Tim realized she was asking Tommy if he planned on gambling tonight.

Tommy shrugged. "I think I'll socialize for a little while first."

Kitty and Tommy headed back up the stairs, to the main floor. Tim turned back to the roulette wheel, his mind racing. Mickey Kazon, a gangster Kitty had some interaction with, was dead. The suspect in jail might be related to someone Tommy Chicago knew. One of Tommy's old war buddies was spying on him and Felix. And the other suspect to Kazon's murder, out on the loose, sounded for all the world like someone Tim had dealt with and ultimately "put away," two years ago.

* * *

Annie was shaking as she dressed herself for the night's performance. She slipped into a long gown of an iridescent, dark blue material that would've been a tube top, if not for one thick strap of fabric cutting across her chest. She hesitated to step out from behind the changing wall, frightened she'd see Bruna Rike sitting in the room waiting for her. To her relief, the monster of a woman wasn't there. She sat at her mirror to do her jewelry and makeup. She left her hair as it was, with the roll over her forehead and the rest sitting over her shoulders. As she put on her diamond chandelier earrings, she was painfully reminded by her reflection in the mirror of her connection to Bruna Rike.

All the men thought her metallic blotches, gold hair, and blue eyes were alluring. That quiet Indian, whose name she didn't even know, found her alluring. If he knew who else had once welcomed her "Aryan" looks, and given her a place to fit in despite her disease—the thought of him finding out made her sick.

He'd probably be at the café tonight. And she had a strong feeling Bruna Rike would be there too.

When the curtain opened, and Annie began her first number—"Why Don't You Do Right"—she saw him at a table close to the stage. He was conversing casually with some other patrons at a table next to him, but his black eyes kept wandering back to her. Her voice wavered slightly, which the crowd seemed to interpret as deliberate inflections in her song. She forced her eyes away from him, and scanned the rest of the crowed as she sang. (Multitasking was something Annie was unusually good at.) Tommy Chicago was by the bar, flirting with a couple of women. Harry Kimitsu was behind her of course, among the band. Kitty Indiana was making rounds around the tables, socializing with her customers.

She was almost finished with her song, when she saw the Nazi enter the café. Bruna strode in wrapped in a silver fox skin coat, carrying herself like she owned the place. She didn't make eye contact with Annie, but marched on smugly as if she knew Annie was looking at her.

* * *

"Seven looks so pretty," Naomi lamented, leaning on the consol in Astrometrics.

While the Doctor and Vorik discussed how to get through to the crew, some of Seven's assistants in Astrometrics were keeping tabs on the holodeck. The showing had been moved from Engineering to Astrometrics, as the Engine crew needed to focus on getting the dead warpcore and other systems up and running again, without distractions. Tal Celes and both of the Delaney twins were on duty in Astrometrics, and allowed Naomi to eavesdrop, in part because the girl knew Seven of Nine so well. While the women did the scientific work, Naomi's job was to keep an eye on the senior officers in the holodeck, and note anything significant that might hint to what was going on.

"She looks gorgeous." Jenny Delaney agreed.

Naomi knew it was Jenny, because she was wearing the green uniform. Since the twins were identical, and changed their hairstyles too often to go by _that_, their uniform colors were the only way Naomi had ever been able to tell them apart.

"But," Jenny Delaney went on, "_why_ she's on that stage is driving me up a wall. What's the _point_?"

Her gold-uniformed sister Megan shook her head. "Just part of the program. I'm still not convinced anyone did this on purpose. We've had malfunctions lead to catastrophes before, just a chain of events…"

"Like _what_?" Tal Celes, the jumpy Bajoran crewman, asked.

"Well," Megan stared up at the ceiling. "That Fair Haven program, for starters. The aliens entering Tom's Captain Proton program…that Beowulf thing way back in year one…"

"But in those cases," Jenny pointed out, "the malfunctions weren't so…complete. I mean, _this_ like someone _anticipated_ us trying to get in and communicate with the crew, and blocked every possible way they could. It reminds me of when Seska's hologram took over Tuvok's Insurrection Alpha program, but the senior staff deleted her from the program for good."

Naomi looked at the three women. "Maybe Seska had a backup hologram somewhere."

Megan shook her head. "We've checked all the holodeck files upside-down and inside-out. There's no trace of that program anywhere on the ship. Believe me, after that incident, a lot of people went to extra lengths to make sure that bitch wouldn't be coming back to haunt us again."

Megan was a former Maquis, and like most of the others onboard, held a deep personal hatred for the Cardassian spy. Tal and Jenny seemed to empathize with Megan's distain for Seska. Tal had not appreciated learning that one of the other Bajorans aboard—one who'd claimed to have lived through the same horrors Tal had under Cardassian occupation—had turned out to be a Cardassian herself. Jenny, who'd transferred to Voyager after learning about Janeway's mission to capture the Maquis ship her sister was on, was also sympathetic.

"I don't know," Jenny said finally. "That Seska hologram sure seems to know a lot more than she's letting on."

"That was always Seska's attitude." Megan said. "Before the big reveal I just thought she did it to sound smart. Now I think she did it to confuse us. It's just part of how Chakotay and B'Elanna and everyone else would remember her. Just like Kes acting sweet, and B'Elanna's father being a jerk."

Jenny shrugged, and turned back to her consol.

Naomi folded her arms on the consol and stared back at the screen. It was really maddening, watching Seven, Captain Janeway, Harry, and the others in such danger, and being unable to do anything about it.

* * *

_God damn it._

He was supposed to be following Tim Excelsior, and finding that bird. Billie was counting on him. A lot of other people, who he hadn't mentioned to his secretary, were also counting on him. The couple Charles had been conversing with told him a Colored man with pointed ears had been hired as the new roulette wheel runner, and was probably downstairs. Charles should be down there. But he couldn't force himself to leave his table as long as Annie Hanson was singing.

Come to think of it, wouldn't it be a good idea to get to know another of the workers here? Find out about Excelsior that way?

But the girl might be onto him. The way she'd left so abruptly in the coffee shop earlier. The way she kept glancing at him now, without looking happy to see him. Of course, it could be that she was afraid to be seen with a non-white man. With that disease all over her face, maybe she was afraid he might drag her social status down even further. Yet she hadn't seemed to mind his heritage one bit, when he'd told her. And of all places in the country to have an interracial relationship, one could do far worse than California. No, he decided. It wasn't the race issue that bothered her. It was something concerning some business she had. This revelation brought a smile onto Charles' face, not only because it meant she still might be interested in him, but also because he now had an excuse to stay near her. He had to find out what she was up to, and what connections she had to the bird statue.

Her song ended, but her time on the stage didn't. She had another number, a slow tune with a steady beat, which Charles had heard on the radio a few times. It was usually sung by a man, but Annie put her own sultry spin on the tune.

"_One more kiss dear…one more sigh_…"

"Charles!"

_No_.

Charles glanced up, and saw Tommy Marsalis standing over his table, holding a drink. Was that a zoot suit he was wearing? With a Mickey Mouse tie? And a hat, indoors? Stuck in the brim was a joker card, a winged air force pin, and what looked like a seagull's feather.

"Can I have a drink with you?"

Tommy pulled out a chair, seating himself even as Charles said loudly and rudely, "_No_."

Tommy chuckled. "You despise me, don't you."

Charles stared at Tommy a moment, then lit himself a new cigarette. "If I gave you any thought I probably would."

* * *

"_Casablanca_!" Jenny Delaney suddenly explained.

Naomi, Megan and Tal stared at her.

"That line—that 'you despise me'—that's from an old Earth film, 'Casablanca.' Remember Megan, that's one of the films I downloaded from the ship's database, that we watched on my monitor? "

Megan was slowly nodding. "Yeah, that's the one we told Tom to watch, to get ideas for this noir program. What of it?"

"Tom hasn't seen it yet, Megan. He told me, two days ago when he was gonna take the senior staff to his program's premier. He said he hadn't gotten a chance to watch it yet, but might make changes to his program later if he got ideas. He and Chakotay are quoting movies they _haven't seen_, Megan."

Megan frowned with her eyes.

"So," Tal broke in, "what you're saying is, that movie quote didn't come from Paris's subconscious. The person in charge of this program brainwashed him with it?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Jenny said. "So that whole theory we had before, about Seska and Kes and all the other crazy coincidences coming from everbody's subconscious—I think it's targ maneuver now. This is _not_ a malfunction. Someone is paying games with our senior staff."

Megan began typing furiously at a wall panel. "I'm gonna check to see if anyone's accessed our quarters' programs, Jenny. The films we've downloaded, our logs…" after a minute or so, she stopped, and said, "Well how about that."

Tal, Jenny and Naomi stared at her.

"How about what?" Jenny asked.

"It's encrypted." Megan turned back to the other girls. "Looks like someone _did_ hack into our information, and then covered his or her tracks. I'll eat my words Sis, you were right. Someone's deliberately messing with us." She looked like she had more to say, and it looked like it was going to be bad news.

Jenny stood with her arms folded, and raised her eyebrows, urging her sister to continue.

"This _should_ be impossible," Megan finished. "But I think it has Seska written all over it."

* * *

**A/N: Spock's beard, I hate writing technobabble. I now understand why the "Trek" writers get so lazy with it.  
**

**If you're frustrated by how slow-moving this story is, you're not the only one. I have a LOT of exposition to cram into the holographic scenario, before I can get the story in the "real" world moving. I'm hoping the next chapter will be the last for introducing the all the necessary characters for the scenario, so I can actually start to move the plot forward. **

**Also, the song "One More Kiss Dear" can be found on the soundtrack to "Blade Runner"—though I've no idea if it was a "real" song before that movie. **


End file.
